


Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

by Ardenne



Series: Fearfully and Wonderfully Made [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alana Bloom POV, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book: Red Dragon (1981), F/M, Flat Out Murder, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal is the Actual Worst, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse, Murder Letters, Post-Season/Series 01 AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Together They Fight Crime, Trash Can Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27410083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardenne/pseuds/Ardenne
Summary: A year after the birth of their son, Will and Alana reunite after a killer they have profiled in the past resurfaces. As they hunt for the ghost of a man who is killing families with young children, ghosts from their past also get involved — with dire consequences.This story is a SEQUEL to The Cure for Anything and the third installment in my Post-Season 1 AU.
Relationships: Alana Bloom & Will Graham, Alana Bloom/Will Graham
Series: Fearfully and Wonderfully Made [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985929
Comments: 16
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter One

You have searched me, Lord,  
and you know me.  
You know when I sit and when I rise;  
you perceive my thoughts from afar.  
— Psalm 139, NIV

“He’ll come if you ask,” Jack said. 

“Yes, he would,” Alana replied. “Which is why I’m not going to ask him.”

They were sitting together on a blanket in the backyard of Jack’s handsome colonial home in Arlington, watching Stephen play. The baby was currently having fun handing each of his toys in turn to Jack, who accepted them with an exaggerated expression and lots of praise. Stephen responded by giggling and waving his arms up and down. 

“Will needs time,” Alana continued. “He’s been through a lot. And I want him to come back for his own reasons, when he’s ready.” 

“And he’s not ready now? He’s okay with missing all of this?” Jack asked, motioning to Stephen. 

“We talk a few times a week over Skype,” Alana said. “He sends me whatever I need for Stephen, even though I know it’s hard on him because he isn’t making a lot of money right now.” She paused, thinking about her words carefully: Jack was Stephen’s godfather, which was a testament to his friendship to both Will and Alana, but Alana also knew Jack had his own agenda with Will. “I pretend Will is working somewhere else, or deployed. It’s not that strange a situation for a family with young children.” 

“Are you his family?” Jack asked pointedly. 

“Yes,” Alana said, also pointedly. 

Jack was silent for a time, watching Stephen play with his toys. “I need him,” he said, finally. “And I need your help to get him here.”

Alana thought for a bit before she answered. “He won’t respond to any obvious emotional manipulation, so don’t insult him by trying,” she said. “He will also be insulted if you frame it as a purely intellectual exercise. And he won’t come back because he feels like he owes you — or me — anything, because he doesn’t.” She paused. “You have to get him to come by appealing to his morals. Those are strong. He’ll want to catch the guy, once he’s in the chase. He’ll be all in; he’s like a pit bull that way. But you can’t try to trick or manipulate him or you’ll scare him off.” Alana paused again. She knew both how to get Will back, as well as what would be keeping him away. 

She sighed. “You can tell him I’m working the case. And that if he comes…it can be whatever he wants it to be between us.” She spoke again, imploringly. “But this is bigger than all of us. Whatever has gone on, personally, between us is unimportant. Our team needs him. Stress that to him when you see him.” 

A few days later, Alana packed her small suitcase and boarded a plane to Atlanta. Stephen would be staying with his grandparents while she worked; they were delighted to have so much access to him, anyway, as their youngest grandson. Alana pointedly did not mention that she would be seeing Will. 

D. C., built on a swamp, was always sweltering in the summer and Atlanta, truly, was no better. The muggy heat hit her like a wall when she exited the plane and then the airport. She took a Lyft to her hotel and texted Will, who agreed to meet her for an early dinner at a restaurant downtown, within walking distance of their hotel. He had arrived in Atlanta the day before and had already gone to the Leeds house, where the crime scene was still intact. 

Alana felt strangely excited as she freshened herself up and dressed for dinner in a black linen jumpsuit and her flat Tory Burch sandals. Though she and Will spoke regularly over Skype, phone, and text, she hadn’t seen him in person since Stephen was born. She knew, intellectually, that this whole trip was supposed to be just business — but the fact that Jack had agreed she should travel, too, instead of remaining at Quantico as she usually did, showed both that her relationship with Will was special and so was this case. 

Will was already at the restaurant when she arrived. He looked rumpled and out of place surrounded by the trendy, vaguely Asian decor, but stood up when she walked up to the table and kissed her, chastely, on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he said quietly. 

“Thank you,” she replied, sitting down. She was seized with the strange realization that she and Will had never dated in the way that traditional couples dated. This dinner felt like a date. 

Before she opened her menu, she eyed Will carefully: he was quite tan, and a bit thinner than she would have liked to have seen. While he looked tired, he also looked much less careworn. She knew she was different, too; he was looking at her appraisingly. “I like your hair like that,” he said, genuinely. 

Alana patted her hair, which was now above her shoulders — it was easier to care for with a baby. She smiled. It was so easy to smile when he was around. “Thank you for that, too.” She opened her menu. “I feel like a drink. I’ve remembered that I kind of hate flying.” 

Will chuckled. Alana eyed him again over the top of her menu: his face, so wonderfully familiar yet, now, even a little unfamiliar here in real life instead of on a phone or laptop screen. Their time apart felt like an ache in her chest. 

They both agreed to sample two of the restaurant’s signature cocktails. The drinks arrived swiftly, since it was early and the bar was quiet. After they had both admired their drinks — Alana’s mojito was an impressive blue color — she lifted her glass and held it, to toast. Will, seeing her, followed suit. “To being Jack’s special china, reserved for his most important guests,” she said, echoing something Hannibal had once said, a long time ago. He had been right about some things. 

They both took a sip of their drinks, then switched and tried each other’s. The gin and tonic Will had ordered tasted refreshingly of citrus. Alana complimented Will on his choice but told him she wanted hers back, and he switched them again, chuckling for the second time. 

They sat quietly. Alana studied him, but he seemed to be making an effort not to study her; he would occasionally catch her eye, and then lower his eyes again, fidgeting with the fold of his napkin. He didn’t seem uncomfortable, exactly…more embarrassed. Reading his body language, Alana eased up and took another sip of her drink. “Who’s taking care of the dogs?” she asked him. 

“Shelby...uh, Shelby McConnell. She’s Bruce and Nadine’s granddaughter.” He seemed less nervous now that he was speaking, and Alana felt a pang of guilt for putting him under her microscope. He didn’t deserve that. 

Will continued speaking. “She’s seventeen, diagnosed as Asperger’s. Nadine said she has trouble opening up, but she loves animals. She wants to be a vet tech or an animal trainer. She’s really good with dogs.” 

Alana smiled fondly. “She must be good, for you to trust her with them.” 

“Yeah, she is,” he said, nodding. “She’s a great kid.” Will’s hands were folded in front of him and he was rubbing his thumb, slowly, against his palm. Alana still loved his hands, his nimble worker's hands; hands that fixed engines and tied knots and worked fishing lines. There was patience in his hands, and strength, and gentleness. 

Alana longed to touch his hands. 

The waiter, who seemed to be barely older than a teenager but had both arms snaked with tattoos, brought them a plate of browned edamame and some fried noodles. Will seemed hungry; he helped himself to the fried noodles. “Stevie is with your parents?” he asked, after swallowing. 

Alana nodded. “They’re delighted. I think sometimes my mother is scheming to steal him from me. I can’t remember her doting on any of her other grandkids the same way.” 

“What's he like?” Will asked, a little wistfully. 

Alana smiled softly. While she and Will spoke often, they had had little opportunity to speak alone, and in depth, since Stephen was born. “He’s bright,” she said. “Curious. More than a little shy. He's your son.” 

“Are there any signs he’s…” Will shrugged, not knowing what to call whatever he was. 

She shook her head. “He’s smashed through all of his milestones. He’s actually ahead on most of them. His pediatrician is convinced he’ll be a genius.” She shrugged. “I told her his father was a genius, so that wouldn’t be a surprise.” Will smiled and lowered his head sheepishly. 

She continued.“And even if he was, Will…I would love him anyway. I told you that. I wouldn’t mind if he was different, just like I don’t mind that you’re different.” 

She reached toward his hands, which were still folded in front of him on the table, and grasped one. He let her do it, opening his hand to hers. His hand was a little rougher now, after a year of being a mechanic, but its weight and warmth felt familiar and reassuring in hers. 

He raised his eyes toward hers — really, for the first time since they had sat down together. A surge of pleasure rose in her chest…pleasure, and comfort, and love. 

She wanted, desperately, to tell him so many things in that moment: how good it felt to be with him again, how much she still loved him, how much she would always love him, how it seemed impossible that he would ever do anything to make her _not_ love him…

But Will broke the spell, squeezing her hand and then pulling his away and hiding it under the table. 

They made small talk until their entrees came — she asked Will how things were going in Marathon, and he talked a little about his work. He didn’t give a lot of detail and Alana decided not to pry, letting him find where he would be at ease. While he spoke, she studied him contentedly, looking at his familiar shapes: his almond-shaped eyes, his handsome but irregular features, the bones of his clavicle visible through the open button of his blue chambray shirt. Occasionally, he would make an expression and she would be acutely reminded of Stephen. The association brought comfort, not sadness. 

He paused, noticing her watching him. “What are you thinking about?” he asked. “You’re smiling a little.” 

Alana smiled wider. “Stephen looks a lot like you, you know,” she said. “Even now, when he’s still so young.” 

Will seemed about to reply, but just then, their entrees came — vegetarian lo mein for Alana and barbecue duck with fried rice and fresh ginger for Will. After admiring their plates, they both began to eat. 

Again, Alana noticed that Will seemed hungry: he didn’t say much except to nod approvingly when she asked if his food was good. By his own admittance, he had never been able to master chopsticks, so he ate with a knife and fork while she maneuvered her noodles gracefully into her mouth, as one learned when dining extensively at the table of Hannibal Lecter. 

When Will seemed mostly satiated, she asked to try some of his food, as they had always done when they had gone out to eat together. He pushed his plate towards her and she picked up some of his rice and duck with her chopsticks. 

She put the food in her mouth delicately, placing a hand just under her chin to catch a spill. She didn’t have to think about her manners; they were deeply ingrained in her from years of practice. “Mmm, I like yours better,” she said after swallowing.

“Then finish it,” he said, nodding towards her. 

“Will!” she said, genuinely touched at his kindness, but wanting to refuse it. 

“It’s fine. Please finish it. I’ll have some of yours.” 

He spoke a little more as they began to finish their food. Will asked her about what Stephen was doing at her parents’ house and how they felt about watching him. “He’s happy, really,” Alana said, trying to reassure him. “He’s a happy baby that loves his grandparents.” 

She knew, from reading between the lines of what Will said in his texts and on the phone, that he felt guilty for leaving Alana to raise Stephen alone. He had stayed with her for a week after Stephen was born, sleeping downstairs on the sofa, and then, after Alana had fully recovered from the birth and had settled in with the baby, he had flown back to Miami. Alana hadn’t fought with him, hadn’t tried to force him to stay; she knew it wouldn’t have worked anyway. 

She did miss him often, it was true, but she also knew why Will stayed away — he didn’t want her to worry about Stephen and also have to worry about him, too. He had told her that Stephen deserved her full attention, and he was determined to make sure his son had whatever he needed. 

Except his father. 

The sound of Will’s voice broke Alana from her reverie. “I guess I’ll never be able to get your mother to like me,” he was saying.

“She adores Stephen,” Alana answered. “And you made Stephen, so she likes you well enough, just for that reason.” 

The waiter came and took their plates, then asked them if they would like dessert or another drink. After both Will and Alana declined, he brought the check along with two fortune cookies on a plate. They were clearly fresh and handmade, not in plastic wrap like the ones in Chinese takeout. 

“You go first,” Alana said, gesturing to the plate, where Will took one of the cookies, cracked it open with his fingers, and read the fortune. “What does it say?” she asked him. 

He smiled a little. “‘You were born with a ‘sixth sense’ and superb insight.’”

Alana found herself laughing. “Is it really a fortune if it’s true?” 

“I don’t know if fortune cookies are supposed to tell fortunes,” he said. “Maybe that’s just a Western thing. How about yours? What does it say?”

Alana took the other cookie and cracked it open. “‘People are naturally drawn to your kind spirit,’” she read. 

“Again, not a fortune, truth,” he said, directing his small smile towards her. A feeling of comfortable affection fell over her again, as it had so many times in the past hour. 

Will paid for dinner — he insisted — and, after he had signed the receipt, they both rose from their booth and walked out of the restaurant into the street. It was still bright outside, but the sun was lowering; Alana took her sunglasses out of her purse and put them on. 

“It just occurred to me that I don’t know where you’re staying,” Will said. 

“Same place as you,” she answered. “Jack gave me a heads up. He’ll be there too, in the morning.” 

They turned toward their hotel and walked together. Alana sped up a bit — or Will may have slowed down — but eventually, her arm wrapped around his. They didn’t hold hands, but her arm felt satisfyingly comfortable in his. 

As they walked, office workers poured out of the buildings and music started up from the bars they passed. Had Alana been ten years younger — or in Atlanta for a completely different reason — she would have asked Will to go into one of the bars, to have another drink with her and listen to some music, so she could keep enjoying the pleasure of his company. But now she just felt tired and a little bit sad. The momentary lift in her mood she had gotten from seeing Will was leveling off, and she was remembering why they both were in Atlanta: it certainly wasn’t to have dinner together or go to bars. 

The traffic downtown was thickening and there were cabs, rideshares, and cars lined up in front of the hotel, depositing and picking up passengers. Some were just going into the hotel, bags in tow, while others were already dressed for a night out. The thought of what awaited her the next day lay a bit more heavy when she saw people living normal lives, no thoughts of murdered families on their minds. 

Inside the hotel, the lobby was crowded with an assortment of people: single and in business wear, couples in shorts and sundresses, families with children and pouting teenagers. The hotel bar was open and guests filed in while televisions played the news and sports highlights. Alana heard the sound of glasses tinkling, echoing against the marble floors and columns. 

They paused in front of the elevators. Will turned toward her and swallowed hard. He seemed to want to say something, but whatever it was, he struggled with it. 

Alana took her extra keycard out of her purse and gave it to him. “Room 1125. If you want to come by. You don’t have to call.” 

He looked at the keycard in his hand, then at her. She smiled at him, gave him a short kiss on the cheek, and then walked away from him, joining the crowd of people waiting for an elevator. 

Two hours later, Alana had showered and talked to her mother on FaceTime, checking in with Stephen before he went to sleep. Night had fallen and now she lay in her hotel bed, absently watching the news, when she heard a knock at her door. She checked the peephole before she answered it — it was Will. 

“I know you gave me the key, but it feels weird to just come in,” he said, after she opened the door. He absently ran a hand through his dark hair and smiled a little sheepishly. Alana was keenly reminded of when she had first met Will back at Quantico. It seemed like a different lifetime. 

He raised his other arm a little, where he was holding a brown paper shopping bag. “Um…I brought a bottle. It’s just Johnnie Walker.” 

She got the awkward sense that he felt like he wasn’t impressing her. There was no need. “I love it.” She opened the door wider. “Come in.” 

When he had entered the room, she took the shopping bag from him, unwrapped and opened the bottle of Scotch, and poured a generous glass for both herself and Will. “There’s no ice,” she said as she handed him his glass.

He was sitting — not on her bed, but on the chair in the corner of the room. “That’s fine,” he responded, taking the glass from her hand. Alana took a seat on the bed opposite him and raised her glass for another toast. “To Stephen, our baby,” she said. They both drank deep. 

Will sat silently, still looking awkward and weighing his glass of Scotch in his hand. He was still wearing the blue chambray shirt and jeans he had worn to dinner. Alana was reminded of how much she liked him in blue. 

She set her glass on the bedside table and leaned back a little. “Did you come to talk shop, or for something else?” she asked him.

“Both?” he said, his voice raising a little at the end of the question. He was feeling her out. 

She took over, deciding to lead him for now. “You went to the house last night?” she asked. 

He nodded solemnly. 

“How was it?” 

He shook his head. “But, the good news is, I think we’ve seen this guy before.” When Alana couldn’t follow him, he spoke again. “It was the case I was working on when I had that argument with Freddie Lounds. The one in Charleston.”

She gasped. “We talked about this guy! The footprints in the yard! You really think it’s the same killer?” 

Will nodded. “It feels…right. I can’t explain it yet, though.” He shrugged. “I could be wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” Alana said. “What makes you think it’s him?” 

But Will, instead of answering her question, shook his head. “Not tonight. We’ll have weeks to talk about him. We will grow weary of talking about him.” 

“Then we can talk about other things,” she said. “Or maybe not talk at all.” Alana was aware her legs were bare and she wasn’t wearing a top under her cotton robe…and so, it seemed, was Will. 

“Do you want to…not talk?” he asked, his tone lifting, just a bit, at the end of the question. 

“We can do or not do whatever you want,” she replied. 

He rose from the chair and placed his glass of Scotch next to hers on the bedside table. Alana slid over on the bed to allow him to sit next to her, then she turned to face him. 

Her awareness of how much she wanted him had been a dim buzzing in the back of her mind that she had managed to keep at bay all through their dinner. But now he was so close — close enough to touch, and smell, and hear the calm breathing emitting from his open mouth. 

“There’s been no one else,” she heard herself say to him. “Not for me. And if there was for you, it doesn’t matter to me.” 

He nodded…then, slowly, he leaned forward and kissed her. His lips, on hers, were soft and tender. His kiss felt like coming home after a long journey. 

She closed her eyes and felt her body aching with longing for him. She still loved him so very, very much, and it was entirely wrong but also deeply right. 

Another kiss, soft and slow. She laced her fingers into his hair and pulled him towards her, just a little. He took his mouth off of hers, breaking the kiss, and leaned in close to her, speaking in her ear. “There was a woman in Marathon,” he said softly. “She liked me. She tried with me. But in the end, I couldn’t do it.” He leaned away from her, looked deep in her eyes to gauge her response. “Alana,” he said, and her name on his lips was sweet, as sweet as he could be sometimes, the Will no one knew but her. “What do _you_ want me to do?”

“I want you to stay,” she whispered. _I want you to stay with me, like this, forever, Will, you stupid, sweet, wonderful man._

He opened her robe, exposing her left breast. Her nipple was erect and he leaned down and kissed it, then laid another kiss on the flesh of her breast. Her skin broke out into gooseflesh at his touch. 

Part of her — a shameful, stupid part, she admitted — had wondered if Will would still be attracted to her. She had extra weight on her body that she couldn’t seem to lose, and her breasts were less firm from nursing Stephen. She had heard enough of her patients mention that they thought their husbands’ attraction to them lessened after children were born. 

But she also knew that Will had to have felt the same after Hannibal had scarred him. He had been self-conscious about his scar, too, and the changes to his body, but she had loved him just as much as ever. 

His hands traveled down to her belly — still flabby, and with pale stretch marks around her navel. Bending low, he kissed her there, then gripped her waist, where she now had small love handles. 

He lowered her to the bed, laying her flat, opening her robe completely and exposing both of her breasts to the cool air. She felt his warm hand on her breast, her stomach, and then, most blissfully, inside her silk shorts. 

Letting him lead — submitting herself to him — brought her so much pleasure. He knew what she wanted. She didn’t have to say anything. 

Will looked at her, deep in her eyes, and she nodded her consent. 

She felt his hand on her vulva, his fingers gentle, feather-light. Then she felt his fingers on her clit, and the warm rubbing sent a thrill through her. She was getting wet and he could feel it. 

He watched her face as he explored her; he knew her body well and he could keep his eyes on hers. She felt the tips of his fingers enter her, expertly finding her g-spot and pressing on it. She let out a gasp, eagerly anticipating what would come next. 

But he stopped. His eyes went a little far away and he withdrew his hand quickly, laying it on her hip. 

“Will?” she asked. “Are you okay?” 

He nodded, swallowing hard. 

“We can stop if you want.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to stop,” he said. 

Alana grasped his hand and held it to her heart. “No fingers, then. I want you — all of you — inside me. Please.” 

He hesitated. “I don’t have a condom.” 

“I have an IUD. It’s fine. Please.” 

They fucked hard, rougher than normal, both hungering for each other after the long drought. Alana, on the bottom, found her face close to Will’s neck and then his ear, and she tongued his earlobe and then held it, carefully, in her mouth while the waves of pleasure made her gasp. Her legs were wrapped around his waist and she felt his hand on her breast, then firm on her nipple. His other hand was above her head, grasping the headboard of the bed. 

She had to make a conscious effort to keep herself quiet, knowing they were not at home but in a hotel with hundreds of rooms. She heard herself moaning, urging him on. “Yes…fuck me…yes, Will, yes, yes, yes…” 

When they had both come, they released each other and lay next to each other on the bed, both soaked in sweat and panting. Will was normally a gentle and considerate lover, which Alana enjoyed, but she had to admit to herself that it felt incredible to be fucked as she had just been. 

She gazed at him. He was still panting, but he turned his head to look at her, his eyes dark blue and shining in the lamplight, his mouth wet and slightly open. Desire seized her and she straddled him, grasping his cock with her hands and rubbing it against her still-wet pussy, forcing his erection back. “Fuck me again, Will…I need you inside me…come on…” 

The second time was shorter, but more intense, like the explosion of fireworks. Once he was erect, she guided the tip of his dick into her pussy; it went in easily, without any effort, because she was still so wet. She swayed her hips, feeling him inside of her, feeling complete as only he, out of all her lovers, had ever made her feel. They came together within minutes, her on top of him, her knees on the bed and his hands on her hips, gripping her ass. 

After the waves of pleasure had calmed, they lay next to each other again, both still soaked in sweat. Alana felt tension she didn’t realize she had leave her body. She felt Will’s hand move close to hers and grasp it; she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. 

Will got out of bed, fully naked, his dick still a little erect, and, after grabbing the bottle of Scotch from the kitchenette counter, topped off their glasses. Alana shifted onto her side in the bed and gazed at the pleasant, familiar shapes of his body — his skin browner now, his musculature a bit more sinewy than she remembered. He had a dotting of freckles on his back, great legs, a nice ass, and his uncircumcised dick was nestled in a thatch of soft, dark hair. It was well-shaped, if not overly large, and he knew how to use it. 

“What are you looking at?” he asked her, handing her a refilled glass. 

“You,” she answered, taking the glass from him. “You’re hot.” 

He sat down next to her on the rumpled sheets, still nude, still fully at ease. The scar on his stomach was pale and stood out even more on his tan skin. He kissed her temple and nuzzled her, just a little. “So are you,” he said, gazing at her and stroking her hair. 

“Am I really?” she asked, feeling vulnerable, suddenly aware of her sagging breasts and thicker waist. Goddamn it, she hated being vain…

Will didn’t answer; wordlessly, he lowered her to the bed again. The glass of Scotch was still in her hand and he took it and placed it on the nightstand. He looked her in the eyes and she felt one of his hands gripping her waist, then the other, stroking her all over her torso. His hand firmly skimmed her ribcage, her breast, her nipple, then moved up to her clavicle and neck. He lowered his head to kiss her, and she wrapped her hands in his hair, feeling it soft and slightly damp under her fingers. 

Eventually — after a lot of kissing, after she was panting and her nipples were erect — he moved his head down to her pussy, wet all over again. His tongue went inside her and she knew no more, questioned nothing.

Alana woke to a darkened room and took a moment to get her bearings. The alarm clock on the nightstand was glowing green, she was in a hotel room in Atlanta instead of at home with her son, and Will, next to her, was panting. 

She turned her head towards him and saw that he lay flat on his back, barely visible in the darkness, and was covered in sweat. His chest rose and fell as if he had been running and, as she watched, his arms began to twitch. 

From long experience, Alana knew he was in the throes of a nightmare. She knew not to shake or startle him awake, as that might scare him and prompt him to attack her, so she scooted away from him slowly and turned on the lamp nearest the bed, bathing the room in dim light. 

He was so deep in whatever he was dreaming that the light didn’t wake him. The nightmare was cresting: now he flailed his arms, as if he was fighting someone, and then, as Alana watched, he screamed and jumped out of the bed, tangling himself in the covers. He lost his balance and hit the carpet on his side with a tremendous smacking sound. 

“Will!” Alana heard herself shouting. She crawled over the rumpled bed and tried to get to him — before she knew it, before she could be frightened, she was in his arms and he was holding her. “Oh God, Alana, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he was saying, his voice anguished. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she said, pulling herself out of his arms so that she could examine him. “It was a nightmare. Are you hurt?” 

Only then, in response to her question, did he seem to remember where he was. “Alana? What are you doing here?” 

“You’re in my room, silly billy,” she said, cradling his face with her hand. “We’re in Atlanta, remember?” 

He was still panting a little. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he said. “I didn’t piss myself, did I?” He directed his gaze down toward his boxer briefs, which were thankfully dry, though most of the rest of his body was soaked. 

“You’re okay,” she said. “Come here — get up and sit on the bed.” Alana helped Will disentangle himself from the sheet and blanket and he walked slowly to the bed, slightly favoring his left leg. “Are you hurt at all?” she asked him again. 

“Only some rug burn, I think,” he said, looking at his forearm, which was a little red. 

Alana sat next to him, eyeing the rest of his body. He seemed unharmed. “Is this still happening a lot?” she asked. 

“Sometimes,” he said, then sighed. “I went to a sleep clinic again, but they said there’s not much they can do. They gave me a prescription for some more pills, told me to go to therapy.” 

Alana said nothing. She leaned forward and embraced him, and he hugged her back, burying his face in her hair. They stayed that way for a long time, then parted. He leaned his forehead on hers. “I miss you, Alana,” he whispered, his voice forlorn and full of longing. 

“I miss you, too,” she said, and it was the truth. She missed him so much it felt, sometimes, like an ache that wouldn’t subside, like a phantom limb. Being with him today had only made her more sure about that. 

Still touching their foreheads together, Alana took his hands in hers and brought them both to her mouth, kissing each of them in turn. Will raised his head and, softly, tenderly, pulled her chin towards his and kissed her. 

He looked at her and she looked at him and then she spoke. “I love you, ” she said. 

His mouth moved as if he wanted to cry. He kissed her again, then stroked the side of her face with his knuckle. 

After a while, Will pulled away from her and stood up. “I need to go back to my room and change my clothes,” he said. “I’m soaked.” 

“Okay,” Alana said, not wanting to push him. “I can go with you, if you want me to. I don’t mind.” 

He shook his head. “You sleep. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in a few hours.” He leaned down and kissed her on her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She watched silently as he dressed in his jeans and blue shirt, not tucking it in and only buttoning a few buttons. Parts of his shirt darkened as it came into contact with his wet skin. He didn’t bother with his brown boots; he picked them up swiftly, dropping a sock and then leaning down, again, to pick it up. 

He turned away from her and walked out of the room, not looking back. Alana knew he was upset and embarrassed and that was why he didn’t look back; he hated being reminded of his own vulnerability, of the toll his mental illness had taken on his life. But as his words — _I miss you, Alana_ — echoed in her ears, she knew how he really felt.


	2. Chapter Two

You discern my going out and my lying down;  
you are familiar with all my ways.  
Before a word is on my tongue  
you, Lord, know it completely.  
— Psalm 139, NIV

Early the next morning, Alana received a text from Will inviting her, when she was ready, to come to his room. Will and Alana, along with Jack, were set to meet with the FBI agents and Atlanta and Birmingham detectives investigating the Leeds and Jacobi family murders. Coordinating all of that was Jack’s job, as head of the BAU; Will and Alana, as consultants, were assigned to work only on the profile of the killer. 

Will was on the phone when she arrived. He was already dressed and, after answering the door, he sat back down on the bed in his socks, his laptop open in front of him. Alana doubted he had gone back to sleep after his nightmare that morning. Will had brewed some of the weak coffee in his room and was drinking it black; Alana replaced his cup with a venti iced coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby. “Thank you,” he told her after he hung up the phone, gesturing to his coffee. He took a sip. “Price and Zeller got a partial fingerprint,” he said after he had swallowed. 

“Really?” Alana asked, taking a sip of her own iced coffee. “Where?” 

“Off of Valerie Leeds’s cornea.” 

Alana sat on the bed opposite him. “That’s unusual. How did they know to look there?” she asked. 

“Because I told them to,” Will said. He gestured to her to sit on the bed next to him. “I have pictures to show you. Our killer’s work is evolving.” 

Alana had prepped for her trip to Atlanta by reading over Will’s profile of the killer, which Will had developed after the killer’s first known crime in New Haven and then revised, with her uncredited input, after the second set of murders in Charleston. Alana had also been sent the initial reports made by the medical examiners and the Atlanta and Birmingham police departments. She had debated sending Will some notes before her flight, but decided it would be better for them to speak in person. She had, instead, written down her preliminary thoughts in her Moleskine notebook, which she kept in her purse for safekeeping. 

For his part, Will had done all of the same work, but had also visited the crime scene at the Leeds home in the Atlanta suburbs. He had taken a good number of photos with his phone and, during the night, they had updated into his laptop. He carefully and throughly walked her through the crime scene, which extended through most of the house, explaining details he found relevant. Alana sat on the bed next to him and watched the photos flash by on his laptop, which had been situated on a pillow between them. 

Will had found that it was easier just to record their conversation rather than trying to write it all down as it happened. They spoke, exchanged ideas, dismissed ideas, then came back to them and reconsidered them, as if they were writing a song together. After a solid hour of looking at broken glass and blood spatter in the Leeds family’s bedrooms, they had come to some conclusions. 

Alana believed that the killer — she had decided to call him Moon Man — was disfigured or believed he was disfigured, which was why, she thought, that he smashed mirrors. Both of them believed that, in Moon Man’s normal life, he was someone who would not want to call attention to himself, but that he would want some kind of attention for his murders and would be likely to contact someone soon. And finally, based on what Will had found at his second crime scene in Charleston, the killer believed he was on some kind of sacred, spiritual journey. 

“The question is,” Alana asked, “why is he attacking families now? His first two were childless couples.” 

“Maybe he’s not getting what he wants,” Will said. “Whatever he’s doing isn’t working, so he’s changed his MO. He needs a greater sacrifice. The husbands aren’t enough any more.”

“What do you think he thinks about kids?” she asked. 

“I don’t get the sense that he likes them or hates them,” Will replied, shaking his head as he spoke. “He’s ambivalent about them. They’re just meat to him, a means to an end.” Will went back into his photo set and pulled up a series of pictures taken inside the Leeds’s bedroom. “These are the only ones I can’t make sense of. The blood spatter is strange; it doesn’t seem to correspond with any of the known movements of the bodies.” 

Alana looked at the bloodstains, clicking the trackpad to switch back and forth between the pictures for a few minutes. As she looked, she felt a spark in her brain, a long-forgotten memory. “Dolls,” she said, replacing the laptop on the pillow and reclining back. 

“What?” Will asked. 

“Every little rich girl had porcelain dolls. Myself included.” She picked up her own phone, opened the browser, and typed some keywords into Google Image Search. When she found a picture she thought was appropriate, she handed her phone to Will. “You couldn’t play with them much because they were so delicate, so you would have to line them up on your bed or, more often, against a wall, like this.” 

Will nodded. “He lined them up like porcelain dolls.” 

“Yes. Note the bloodstains — this was where their heads were,” she said, pulling up one of Will’s photos and pointing at the computer screen. “You could probably figure out where each of the children were placed, judging by the height.” The excitement of her insight was tempered, then, by the gravity of the crime. “He lined the children up like dolls to watch him rape and mutilate their mother. Then, when he was done, he put them all back where they died.” She continued. “It’s revolting, but also…he had an odd sort of respect for them, too. A typical sex killer wouldn’t bother to do that. They _did_ something for him. I think they were more than a means to an end.” 

She glanced at Will, who sat next to her, listening intently. “He’s left us another breadcrumb,” she said, invoking her own favorite metaphor. “See, you grew up poor and without any sisters, so you don’t know about what girls do with their dolls. But Moon Man knows.” She paused, taking her phone back from Will, then continued. “There’s a female influence somewhere. Could be a sister — more likely, I think, a mother, even a grandmother. But I think, whoever she was, she had porcelain dolls on display in her bedroom.” 

“Did he do the same to Charles Leeds?” Will asked. “Did he prop him up next to the kids?” 

“Yes,” Alana said, pulling up another photo on the laptop and pointing to it. “He had trouble keeping him upright, because Charles Leeds was bigger and heavier than the children. Dead body, dead weight. So that’s why he leaned him up against the dresser. Charles Leeds had to be part of the audience, too, for the fantasy to work.” 

When she was finished, she glanced again at Will. He looked _proud_ of her — pride mixed with a not insignificant amount of pleasure, despite the horror in the photos. Seeing his expression, she smiled at him a little. “What is it?” she asked him. 

He broke eye contact and glanced down sheepishly. “Nothing. I’m just glad you’re here, that’s all.” 

About half an hour later, Will and Alana met Jack down in the lobby, then walked with him out to the hotel’s parking garage, where a rental Nissan Altima sedan was parked. To Alana’s eye, Jack still looked somewhat strange in short sleeves and chinos rather than his usual suit and overcoat; she had seen him a number of times outside of the BAU offices, but he was always nicely dressed. For her part, she supposed she looked strange, also, in jeans and a silk blouse and flat espadrilles, her hair in a bun and a giant half-drunk iced coffee in her hand. 

The three of them settled into the car, Will taking the backseat silently and leaving Alana with the choice to ride shotgun with Jack or to sit in the back with Will. She chose to ride in the front. As she buckled her seatbelt, she heard the telltale rattling of a bottle of Advil from where Will was sitting in the back; she glanced at him in the rearview mirror and saw him palm a few into his mouth. 

The Altima, with Jack in the driver’s seat, traveled northeast out of downtown Atlanta, hitting the end of morning rush-hour traffic in the bustling city. The only noise was the voice of the GPS directing them to a nondescript, square FBI building in the suburbs. Will, in the backseat, nodded off, his head leaning on the window. 

Alana woke him once they reached the parking lot and Jack had parked the car. Ostensibly, she was reaching into the backseat, where her purse and Will’s brown laptop bag were, but she touched his shoulder gently, shaking him just a little. As he woke up, he looked at her bleary-eyed, his lack of sleep in the past few days appearing to catch up to him. 

After introductions to the Atlanta field agents that would be working the case, Will, Alana, and Jack were led to a meeting room that was already full of people. A breakfast of coffee, orange juice, bagels, and donuts was laid out on a back table, with detectives and agents helping themselves. Will made a beeline for the back of the room, settling in on a chair leaning against the wall. Alana, again, was left with a choice — hang around Jack, who seemed busy chatting with the agents setting up the Skype with the Birmingham field office, or follow Will to the back of the room. She decided to take her cue from Will and took a seat beside him. 

“Not feeling sociable today?” Will asked her. The noise from the chatting agents and detectives made it hard to hear him, even though he was next to her. 

“If I need to be, I can be,” she answered. “But, honestly, I don’t know what to say.” 

Will smiled a little. “There’s nothing that you have to say. This is Jack’s moment.” 

Though she had worked for the FBI for years, Alana had to admit that she knew very little about the details of police work, or even the duties of the FBI agents. She spent most of her time in her classroom and was called to the BAU offices only occasionally to work on a case. Will, being a former cop, knew a lot more; she decided to continue taking her cues from him, even though looking to Will to see what was appropriate behavior was risky even on a good day. 

Gradually, the detectives and agents settled in, taking seats at tables around the room. It was not unlike a modern college classroom, with its ergonomic seating and wheeled tables. On the screen at the front of the room was an image of a handful of FBI agents in the Birmingham field office, who peered back at them from their seats around a table in yet another meeting room. 

The meeting began. Jack had taken a seat near the front, his burly body dominating the table he sat at, which seemed tiny and spindly on its plastic wheels. Various agents and officers introduced themselves — field agents, heads of various offices, detectives with the Atlanta and Birmingham police departments. Next to her, Will sat silently; he seemed disinterested. 

After a few minutes, Alana had to admit that she understood why: there seemed to be some strife bubbling just under the surface, especially between the Atlanta detectives and the FBI field agents. Jack, seated in the front of the room, watched them speak, silently observing, his pointer finger rubbing his lower lip absently. As she watched the officers interact, she knew why Jack had enlisted both her and Will: the FBI had at least fourteen people dead, including six children, and they had _nothing_ — they had DNA, but no one to match it to; they had a good profile, thanks to Will, but few leads in terms of narrowing down who it could be matched to. Alana was reminded acutely of Hannibal, and the feeling she got many times, over the years she had helped try to catch the Chesapeake Ripper, that they were looking for a ghost. 

She listened to the agents and detectives speaking, but nothing they were saying was new to her. After a while, she glanced at Will and saw him looking at her, too. His mind, like hers, was elsewhere — not in the details of coordinating work between the Atlanta PD, and not in the pissing contest everyone was having over who would do what — but probably lost in memories, like hers, of cases he had worked. 

After a long time — probably at least a solid hour — the man now speaking at the front of the room, a forensic odontologist, mentioned Will’s name. “We have Special Investigator Graham of the BAU to thank for this. It was missed by all the previous officers who had gone through the Leeds home.” 

There was a slight murmur that ran through the crowd, and heads turned to the back of the room, where Will sat next to her, his brown laptop bag on his lap. Alana saw the telltale shift in his gaze that signified that his mind had come back to the present from very far away. 

She didn’t want to stare at Will and embarrass him further, so she turned her head away from him quickly and lowered her own gaze, just a little. She wasn’t sure how the agents and detectives would react — but, after a few awkward seconds, they seemed to lose interest in Will and redirected their heads and eyes back to the front of the meeting room. 

Now that the spotlight was off Will, Alana thought it would be okay to speak to him. “Details about teeth not doing it for you?” she asked Will in the quietest undertone she could manage. She felt like a high school student speaking over a teacher. 

“Tooth marks are pretty much bullshit,” Will said, leaning back obstinately in his seat, his head and shoulders against the wall. “They’re useful in narrowing down suspects, but teeth can be surprisingly similar. Same as hair and fiber. It’s useful evidence only if you can get it to court.” 

“We have his DNA,” Alana countered. “Not that we can do much with it. But he’s confident, to leave so much of it around.”

Will nodded. “Definitely. He wants us to notice him.” 

“He believes he’s being protected,” Alana said. “He’s on a mission, and he believes whoever he is serving is protecting him.” 

Will nodded, paused, then went on, turning his head a little to look at her. “The Atlanta PD aren’t happy that we took over,” he whispered. “It’s our right, as the FBI, as he’s killed people in four different cities so far. But sometimes the local PDs do a lot of work and want some of the credit. So the Atlanta PD are embarrassed they missed the teeth marks in the cheese I found.” He smiled a little, ironically. “Even though teeth marks are pretty much bullshit.” 

“Will that kind of thing make it harder for them to work with you?” she asked. “You know, professional rivalries?” 

“I might have to _endear_ myself to them,” Will murmured. 

“Well, that’s unlikely,” Alana said, smiling a bit, feeling the old comfort of sliding in to conversation with him, teasing him. He smiled again at her, slightly, not showing any teeth but keeping eye contact with her. Alana decided to continue their conversation, as it was deeply enjoyable to her. “Did you ever work on a big murder before the FBI?” she asked him. 

He shook his head. “Most of the ones I worked on in NOPD were fairly simple. The vast majority of people who are murdered know their killer — domestic disputes, drug debts, matters of honor. You can wrap up the case quickly. People will talk. They don’t want that shit in their neighborhoods.” 

Alana nodded. Just then, the forensic odontologist wrapped up his presentation and Jack stood up from the table where he had been seated. He walked to the front of the room and began to speak. 

“First off, I want to commend the Birmingham and Atlanta police departments for their handling of these cases so far. The FBI is grateful for the hard work you did and continue to do, and those of us here — at the BAU in Quantico, here in the Atlanta field office, and also over there in the Birmingham field office — will continue to welcome your help and input.”

Jack paused for a moment, then continued. “That’s the main thing I want to say. I am in this to get this son of a bitch off the streets. He’s killed fourteen people _that we know of_. I don’t care who gets the lucky break; this unsub being either behind bars or dead, with all of our officers safe, are both optimum outcomes for me. If you or any of your colleagues find anything of interest, no matter how inconsequential, you need to let us know. Don’t attempt to go after this guy alone. He is extremely dangerous and, now, if he feels the heat on him, he’ll become even more so.”

Jack paused again, studying the room. “One more thing. I’ve seen certain media reports calling this killer the Tooth Fairy. That needs to stop immediately — you need to find your leaks and plug them up. You will get media enquiries, especially from a reporter named Freddie Lounds. Do not talk to her, no matter what she offers you. She’s already gotten at least one detective killed.” 

There was a murmur and a shifting of the detectives. Jack saw it, nodded, then continued. “We have a profile of our potential suspect. It’s very detailed and is the work of one of our finest profilers, Special Investigator Will Graham, whom you heard mentioned earlier. He’s a veteran of many high-profile cases. In addition, I have also asked Dr. Alana Bloom from the FBI Academy to consult on this case. She is another excellent profiler and forensic psychiatrist. It is their job to give you some ideas about how to find this killer — how to narrow down a suspect list, things you can tell your agents and officers to look for.”

Jack nodded. “Investigator Graham and Dr. Bloom, please come up here.” 

“Dad’s calling,” Will muttered. Alana cleared her throat to keep herself from giggling. 

Will took his bag off of his lap and placed it on the floor; Alana did the same with hers. Then Will walked up to the front of the room, keeping on the outskirts of where the agents and detectives sat, pointedly not taking the easiest — and most central — route. Alana followed him, intentionally keeping her head forward. She supposed that she and Will might look strange, to the detectives and agents in their nice clothes; both she and Will were casually dressed in jeans, and Will, as always, was more than a little bit rumpled. 

There was no podium to stand at, only a table on wheels in the front of the room with an assortment of papers and folders. Will leaned against the table carefully and Alana joined him, standing up straight next to him. She tried not to stand too close. 

They looked at each other and Alana saw Jack, out of the corner of her eye, ease back to give them the floor. Alana decided to speak first, and as she spoke, she slipped into the ease and normalcy of speaking in front of a large group. “Well, to start with, one of the hallmarks we need to be looking for is reports of unfamiliar cars in upscale neighborhoods. We believe our killer drives a minivan or an SUV. It’s not an older model, but not new, either. It’s the kind of car that wouldn’t turn heads normally, but it may be parked for long periods of time, which is why a neighbor might notice it. You’ll want to check for sightings of unfamiliar cars in a radius of several blocks from each of the crime scenes.” 

Will, who had been looking at her while she spoke, picked up on her lead. “None of these killings took place in gated communities and, so far, our killer has been able to elude cameras. He’s been lucky. This may not last, given how ubiquitous they are. All four of the murdered families had security systems without cameras, and all four of the security systems showed signs of tampering.” Alana noted he did not define what he meant by tampering — she knew it was because the killer had performed different types of tampering. Will knew it was significant, but he didn’t know, as of yet, what to do with that information. 

“Another thing,” Will continued. “We should also be on alert for reports for injuries to family pets. The Leeds family had a dog which was badly injured the day before the murders. This is a pattern Dr. Bloom and I have seen before in this killer; if the family has a pet, he will try to kill it the day before he goes for the family.” 

An agent raised his hand. “Yes?” Jack asked, after calling on him. 

“Where do you think this killer lives?” the agent asked. 

“I don’t believe he is in the south,” Will said. “Dr. Bloom and I are attempting to find possible locations. We think it is very likely he is in the lower Midwest, particularly Missouri or lower Illinois, but possibly Indiana, Kentucky, or Tennessee.” 

Alana spoke next. “We believe this killer has struck at least four times: in New Haven, Charleston, Birmingham, and now Atlanta. He is within driving distance of all these locations, but they are long drives; he’s going far from home to avoid detection and extend his killing spree. His car is equipped with supplies so he can make the fewest stops possible and so he won’t have to stay in a hotel. Be on the lookout for white males in their thirties or early forties driving alone in any of the types of cars we’ve told you about, with extra gas cans, additional food and water, and other supplies like binoculars and extra clothes. He won’t have camping equipment. He’s hiding in plain sight.” 

She watched the agents and detectives make notes, some of them for the first time. She felt a hint of pride. 

Another hand was raised, this time from one of the female detectives from the Birmingham PD. “How is he choosing his victims?” she asked, after Jack recognized her. 

Will said, “That is another element that Dr. Bloom and I are working on. Our killer doesn’t know his victims, but these killings are not random. These families are specifically targeted. They have something in common, some element that draws our killer to them. But as of yet, we are still trying to figure out what it is.” 

But with that, the agents and the detectives looked deflated. Alana could sympathize somewhat; they really didn’t have much. _But if this case was easy_ , she thought, _it would have already been solved._

Jack, who must have seen the disappointed looks on everyone’s faces, spoke next. “We have our killer’s DNA, and now a partial fingerprint and tooth impression, thanks to Mr. Graham. What we need now is for you to be eagle-eyed: tell your officers to be on the lookout for the factors we mentioned, both here and in various places in the Southeast. Our killer will strike again, now that he’s got a taste for it, and it’s our job to stop him and keep a family alive. Special Investigator Graham and Dr. Bloom will continue to work on this case, and we will be sending more information from the BAU nationwide into our field offices.” 

Another hand was raised from one of the Atlanta police detectives. “Do you think this killer will strike Atlanta again?” he asked. 

Alana, thinking the answer was very likely _no_ but not wanting to say it, looked at Will. She knew he hated to lie, but she also knew that he, as a former detective, would know how to keep the detectives interested. 

“The truth is,” he said, “we aren’t sure. We all need to look out for this guy, to keep our families and communities safe from him.” 

Alana thought he answered the question the best way he knew how. 

The meeting ended just after Will and Alana had finished speaking — Jack wrapped things up, then some of the other officers in charge followed him. Alana and Will let the other agents and detectives in the meeting stream out of the conference room before they gathered up their things and went out into the hallway. 

Alana noted that, even though the meeting was officially over, there were quite a number of detectives and agents hanging around. She noted that a lot of their eyes were on Will. She leaned in a little close to speak to him in his ear. “I think they want to meet you,” she said. 

Will shook his head. “I’ve said all I want to say,” he murmured back to her. She could pick up the feeling that he was embarrassed. 

Just then, a detective came up to Will. “Investigator Graham? I’m John Springfield, the head of detectives for the Atlanta PD.” Springfield offered his hand, first to Will, who shook it, and then to Alana, who also shook it. 

“We spoke yesterday,” Will said, shifting his bag on his shoulder. 

Springfield nodded. “About the Leeds’s dog.” Will nodded in answer.

“The good news is,” Springfield started, “we located her. She’s still boarded in the emergency vet. According to them, no one from the family has come to claim her.” 

“Can you give me their information?” Will asked. “I’ll give them a call, see what else they remember about when she was brought in.” 

Will and the detective spoke for a bit, exchanging information about where Charles Leeds and his eldest son had taken the family dog, who was badly injured the night before her family was murdered. Alana supposed Springfield probably didn’t know that Will had written a monograph on this very subject — one that was a favorite weekend read of many of the trainee agents at the FBI Academy. 

After Will and Springfield had finished up their conversation — Will taking Springfield’s business card — he caught up with Alana, who had stood apart from him out towards the lobby of the FBI building. “That’s one survivor,” she said when he had reached her. 

He nodded. “Yeah. Unfortunately, she can’t talk.” He smiled, just a little, ironically. “He just told me the Jacobis appeared to have a cat, but it wasn’t at the crime scene. They found food and litter boxes.” 

“New Haven had no pets, if I remember correctly,” Alana said, nodding. “What did Charleston have again?” 

“Another cat,” Will said. “Never found, as far as I know. That could mean it ran away when it saw the commotion, or that he killed it before. But we do know that we’ve got animals missing.” 

Jack, who was breezing towards the lobby with some of the Atlanta field agents, passed them. “Will, Alana,” he said, “Follow.” 

“I guess that’s us,” Alana said, laughing a little. Will chuckled in reply. Following Jack, who was still holding court on his way out, they crossed through the lobby and out the doors of the FBI building, into a parking lot in a quiet university neighborhood. 

Half an hour later, they were back on the interstate, heading southwest towards downtown Atlanta, the buildings growing taller and the restaurants and shops more upscale. Alana looked for a Cracker Barrel, which was where she and Will usually stopped when they were on a road trip, but they settled on a Yard House because they all wanted beer. 

The restaurant was crowded with office workers on their lunch hour and young professionals. Will excused himself to use the restroom, while Alana and Jack waited for their table. 

“You two are doing great work, you know,” Jack said, after they had both not spoken for a while. Jack had been checking his text messages and emails on his phone. 

“Thank you,” Alana said, bowing her head towards him. “I think the cops expected more.” 

“They always expect more,” Jack said. “But it’s largely out of their hands now. The guy’s not local.” 

“So have we — meaning the FBI — officially taken over?” Alana asked. 

“They’ll chase down their leads and we’ll chase down ours,” Jack said. “The key is to keep everyone communicating. I don’t think the local PDs will get many more leads, if any, but if they do, they need to feel okay about letting us know.” 

Alana nodded. “I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing,” she confessed. “I’m not used to being on the ground in investigations like this.” 

“Just follow Will’s lead,” Jack said, surprisingly kindly. “He’s good at this stuff. But don’t tell him I said that.” 

Alana laughed a little. “I won’t,” she said, then paused, thinking about how much to tell Jack. “He slept badly last night,” she said. “A night terror.” 

Jack’s eyebrows rose. 

“Yes, we spent the night together,” she said. “Or part of it, at least.” 

Will returned just then from the restroom. He very likely noticed that Alana and Jack had been talking about him, judging by how quickly they had both gone silent at his approach, but he said nothing. He sat down next to Alana to wait for their table. 

Jack got the text while their beer glasses were still half-full, shortly after their lunches had arrived. He picked up his phone, checked his texts, then yelled, “That fucking _bitch!_ ” so loudly that most of the restaurant patrons turned around to look at him. 

“What?” Alana and Will both asked, at the same time. 

“Freddie Lounds. Zeller just texted me. There’s a new post up on Tattle Crime, with pictures — of you two.” 

Alana gasped; at the same time, she heard Will say, “Fuck _her_ ,” and turn back to his beer and lunch. 

Knowing it would anger her, but unable to contain herself, Alana pulled up the Tattle Crime home page on her phone. On the front page was a picture of Will and Alana together in the parking lot of the FBI building. It had to have been taken earlier that day. “Graham and Bloom: Reunited for Another One Night Stand!” screamed the headline, in bold black against the red and white design of the site. 

Alana scrolled down past the photo — she had no opinion on it, really — and read the text:

_Will Graham and Alana Bloom, the FBI profilers most famous for catching the Chesapeake Ripper, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, were spotted this morning outside the FBI field office in Atlanta. Joining them was Jack Crawford, head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. This quaint reunion can only mean one thing: that they are on the trail of the Tooth Fairy._

_Avid fans of this blog will remember that Graham and Bloom have had a long and intimate relationship, beginning their courtship in the hallowed halls of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Graham, a classic psychopath, as argued by Dr. Frederick Chilton in his book The Cannibal and the Hunter, was imprisoned there under suspicion of serial murder. “To this day, I don’t know what she sees in him,” Dr. Chilton told me when I informed him of the news. “But she is definitely drawn to darkness. Just look at the relationship she had with Dr. Lecter.” _

_Rumors abound about the state of Graham and Bloom’s relationship; Bloom is regularly seen at the FBI Academy, where she still teaches, while Graham has not been spotted publicly in well over a year. But one thing is certain: they do look cozy!_

_A couple with this much star power for true crime followers wouldn’t be tapped without reason. And this is definitely the case; sources tell me that there was a major meeting this morning at the FBI field office in Atlanta, where Graham and Bloom made quite a splash with their profile of the Tooth Fairy — but Jack Crawford doesn’t want us calling him that. In fact, we are under strict instructions to not call him the Tooth Fairy — but when has your favorite blog ever followed his instructions? _

_Your intrepid reporter will continue to give updates about the latest news in the hunt for America’s current one night stand. Don’t forget to visit our web store for t-shirts! Remember, your purchases help keep this site running!_

Alana scrolled back up and studied the picture at the top. She and Will were walking side-by-side. They weren’t smiling at each other — Freddie hadn’t been lucky enough to catch _that_ — but they were probably closer together than two people who were just work colleagues would normally be. She tapped on the picture and saw more, under the article: Freddie had gotten them both going into the building and coming out. 

Alana raised her eyes from her phone and looked at Jack. “Well, someone from the meeting is talking to Freddie,” she said, “but you knew that, didn’t you?” 

“Anything of interest in the article?” Jack asked. His face was sour. 

“Just gossip,” Alana said. “And a quote from Dr. Chilton.” She turned off her phone and put it in her purse. “This was bound to happen,” she said. 

“We should have known better,” Will said, glancing first at Jack, then at Alana. 

Jack rubbed his bottom lip absently. “Can we turn this around?” he asked them. 

“What do you mean?” Alana asked. 

“In the profile you sent me this morning, you said that you think our unsub might want some attention. You two —“ and with that, he pointed to Will and Alana — “on his case is a big deal. You caught Lecter.” 

“He’ll want to impress Lecter,” Will said. “If he can avoid being caught by us, that means he’s better than Lecter.” 

“Freddie’s story is just guff, though,” Alana said. “I don’t think she knows much.” 

“ _Yet_ ,” Will replied. He took a hearty sip of his beer, then spoke to Jack. “Don’t go after her,” he said. “Let her write and take photos for now. She’s too much of a chickenshit to come close to me or Alana, not after what she’s done, and she knows it. She’ll keep her distance.” 

Jack eyed Alana. “What do you think?” he asked her. 

Alana thought for a moment: truthfully, Freddie’s story hadn’t upset her much. Mostly, she was relieved that, even though Freddie could have found the information easily, she didn’t mention Stephen. 

“I’ll call my parents and tell them to be careful if they leave the house,” Alana said, after a time. “It wouldn’t be a stretch for Freddie to find out that I was pregnant and then check public records for Stephen’s birth certificate. But otherwise, I agree with Will. This kind of thing might draw our unsub out.” 

Will was looking at her; once she stopped speaking, he nodded. “Our guy is on a proper killing spree. He won’t stop until we get smart or get lucky.” 

Alana looked at him, then back at Jack. “And we’re already smart, so luck needs to be on our side.” 

It was just after two in the afternoon when they all returned to the hotel. Jack excused himself, claiming he had phone calls to make, leaving Alana and Will alone in front of the elevator. The lobby was surprisingly quiet, as it was in the middle of the day and the bar hadn’t yet opened for happy hour. 

Alana turned toward Will, noted that he looked weary. “Rest for a while,” she told him. “You look exhausted.” 

He nodded, seemingly relieved. “I’ll call you later.”

“Okay.” She didn’t kiss him, but reached for his hand and squeezed it. Will squeezed hers back. 

Alana went up to her room alone, taking off her shoes, clothes, jewelry, and makeup and sat on the bed, topless under her cotton robe. She also felt tired, but now that she was alone and had some time to think, she realized she missed Stephen acutely. Being around her little boy always cheered her and gave her strength after difficult days. Admittedly, she had never expected to enjoy motherhood as much as she did; part of her was always worried that she was too serious as a parent, but Stephen seemed content. He giggled when she made faces and smiled when she sang to him. He knew how to clap his hands and play peek-a-boo. He liked to bounce and swing and was trying to say his first words. 

She glanced at her phone, where Stephen’s smiling face glowed up at her from the lock screen. It was too early to call and check up on him; he would be down for his afternoon nap, after which her parents would likely prep his dinner. She had only been away from him for just over twenty-four hours, but it felt like she hadn’t seen him in ages. 

She debated whether or not she should nap, but instead, she reached into her suitcase and pulled out her swimsuit, intending to go to the hotel pool and get some exercise. It would be best to keep her mind and body occupied while she waited for something — _anything_ — to happen. 

Will texted her in the early evening, inviting her for a drink downstairs at the hotel bar if and when she felt up to it. There was still half a bottle of Johnnie Walker in Alana’s room, and they had all had beers at lunch, but she was fine with another. It was that sort of a day. 

Will was already in the bar waiting for her at a table in the corner. It was lit by a single candle and the table smelled slightly of burning wax. Downtown Atlanta, its buildings and streets growing dark under a coral sky, was visible through the window beside him. 

Like he had done in the restaurant the day before, Will stood up from his seat as she approached and gave her a friendly kiss on her cheek. She knew he didn’t have to do that, and debated telling him so, but it was so damn charming that she only kissed him back. She sat down at the table opposite him, enjoying the way the candlelight and soft ambient light of the bar made his features glow. “Did you get some rest?” she asked him. “You look a little better.” 

He nodded. “I’m sorry, again, about last night,” he said, more intimate with her now than he had been at lunch. 

She stretched her hand out to him and was heartened when he grasped it, softly. “It’s okay,” she said. “I was just worried about you, that was all.” 

He nodded again, swallowing hard, and lowered his eyes. He seemed to be struggling with what he wanted to say. Alana kept quiet and gave him time; she didn’t mind the silence. 

“Um,” he said, then cleared his throat. “I’m really glad you’re here.” 

“I am, too,” she said, smiling softly at him. 

He seemed about to say more, but just then, the waitress came by with the drink and food menus. As Alana took hers, she noticed that Will’s cheek, under his glasses, was slightly wet. She decided not to comment on it. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked her, seemingly grateful to change the subject. 

“I could eat,” she said. “I had a swim earlier. It was nice.” 

They decided on a mezze platter, and Alana wanted a peach Bellini, since they were in Georgia. The change in conversation topic and the enjoyment of selecting food they would both like seemed to give Will time to grapple with his emotions. Alana did not feel awkward being with him — in fact, she had to admit that being with him made her intoxicated with happiness — but she also knew Will carried a lot of guilt for what had happened to them over the past year and a half. They would have to settle that soon, but not right now. 

Behind Will, Alana noticed that CNN was showing footage of Donald Trump, the new President. Alana felt a stab of revulsion. “Ugh, I think I’ve lost my appetite,” she said. 

Will turned around, noticed who was on the television, and chuckled. “Oddly enough, I have a craving for ham.” 

Alana giggled and smacked his arm playfully. “Low-hanging fruit,” she said. 

He shrugged. “That’s not the only thing about him that’s low-hanging.” 

“Don’t let those guys in golf shirts over there hear you say that,” Alana said, still teasing him. “We’re in Georgia. I bet they voted for that dumb motherfucker.” 

Will turned around again, glancing at the men at the bar and their female companions, clad in Lilly Pulitzer. “Those country-club yuppies? Secret Democrats. Totally.” He winked and made the OK symbol with his left hand that was associated with the President. 

After a few minutes of more Trump-bashing, which pleased Alana, their drinks and food came. Though she had thought she wasn’t terribly hungry, she saw the platter loaded with some of her favorite foods and was suddenly ravenous. 

She was spooning tabouleh and hummus onto a piece of pita bread when Will spoke. “So, I have another assignment.” Alana, who was just about to put the pita bread into her mouth, lowered it. 

Will continued. “Jack wants me to go to Birmingham, to the Jacobi house. It’s just over two hours from here.” 

Disappointment, like lightning, cracked in her chest. How could Will be leaving her so soon? And all alone, in a city where she knew no one, and had nothing to do but think about a murderer, and how much she missed Stephen, and how much she missed Will? 

“I know it’s short notice and you weren’t prepared —“

“What do you mean, not prepared?” she asked him, feeling angry. “It’s only been twenty-four hours, and Jack’s already sending you off to do something else, and I don’t know what to do —“ She cut herself off before she could finish the sentence. _And I don’t know what to do without you._

He shook his head vigorously, grasping her arm. “I’m sorry. That came out all wrong.” He took a deep breath. “What I meant to say was yes, I have another assignment, but —“ 

“You want _me_ to go with you?” she asked him, finally understanding. 

“Would you be okay with going?” he asked, a bit hesitantly. 

“Of course! When are we leaving?” 

Will beamed, looking genuinely happy and relieved. “We’ll leave early tomorrow morning. I was thinking we should pack our things and check out, just in case we decide to stay in Birmingham for the night. We’ll have to rent a car to get there, too…” 

Alana heard Will speaking, knowing he had already put so much planning into the next leg of their trip and loving him for that, but also swept away by deep feelings of excitement…and _joy_.


	3. Chapter Three

You hem me in behind and before,  
and you lay your hand upon me.  
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,  
too lofty for me to attain.  
— Psalm 139, NIV

It was already sunny and sweltering by the time Alana, with her suitcase packed, met Will in the covered driveway just outside of the lobby of their hotel. He had gone earlier that morning to pick up the car he had rented for their drive to Birmingham. 

He greeted her with a smile and a kiss on the cheek, and then, wordlessly, he took her suitcase and put it next to his in the trunk. “Will!” she said, exasperated. “I can do that.” 

“Did you get coffee?” he asked. 

“Of course,” she said, nodding her head towards two iced coffees in a paper holder, which she had placed in the shade on the sidewalk. 

“Then you’ve done enough.” He walked back around to the passenger side of the Honda Accord he had rented and opened the front passenger door for her. She grabbed the two coffees and, after sitting down in the passenger seat, put them both in the cupholders. 

Will sat down in the driver’s seat and grinned at her. He was already sweaty, though it was only just after ten in the morning. “You look beautiful,” he said sincerely. 

“And you look wet,” she said, laughing a little. His excitement seemed infectious. 

“It’s hot as the devil’s asshole, as my dad would say,” Will said, still smiling. “With variance of ‘hotter than the devil’s nut sack.’” 

She laughed. “Now I see where you got your charm.” 

He grinned boyishly and looked her over, as if he was taking her in. “You’re wearing your necklace,” he said.

Alana put her hand on the necklace he had sent her last Christmas. “I always wear it, unless I’m at work,” she said, smiling fondly. 

The necklace was a diamond letter _S_ , set in yellow gold. He had sent it, along with a pile of toys and books for Stephen, via UPS. At the top of the box was a long handwritten letter from him that made Alana cry like she hadn’t cried in months. She was able to call him to thank him only after she thought she had recovered. 

As she thought of the memory, Alana’s heart was touched and she reached out her hand to his. Smiling still, Will grasped it and held it to his lips, kissing her fingers. 

They set out, following the directions on Will’s phone as the GPS led them southwest out of Atlanta. Will put on Paul Simon’s _Graceland_ as they drove and ate out of a bag of Sour Patch Kids, one of his favorites. He offered the bag to Alana at several points, but she refused, even though she was sorely tempted by the candy. 

After he lowered the bag again, Alana spoke. “You are in an excellent mood considering we’re on the way to a murder scene.”

Will grinned and took his eyes off the road briefly to look at her. “Haven’t you ever wanted to do this just once? You and me, together, going to a scene, working it? Figuring it out?”

“I thought you worked alone.” 

“I _tend_ to work alone,” he replied. “I never said it was a requirement.”

She chuckled, enjoying the feeling in her chest. “Technicality,” she said, then looked at him for a while longer before she spoke again. “The answer to your question is yes. And the reason why you are my very best friend in the world, Will — my friend and my lover — is because you understand that.” 

Their drive to Birmingham was pleasant and uneventful. Once they had reached the city, Will used his uncanny ability to find an excellent dive restaurant for their lunch. “See? ‘People Love Us on Yelp!’” he said, pointing out the red sticker on the door as they walked up to a barbecue joint in a strip mall. “‘Nextdoor Neighborhood Favorite.’ That makes it okay then.” 

Alana looked at him askance as he opened the door to let her in. “If I get food poisoning,” she warned, “I will never blow you again.”

Will scoffed. “That’s an empty threat.” 

Inside the restaurant, which was dark, wood-lined, and had as its central point a massive wood smoker, the hostess greeted them and led them to a booth. Alana was acutely reminded that they were now in Alabama, and the people around them were speaking to each other with heavy Southern accents. She felt as if she had gone to Mars. 

She said the same to Will, who chuckled. “If you need to make conversation, just say ‘Roll Tiiiide!’ very loudly.” 

Alana started laughing and put a hand over her mouth. Will started laughing harder, too. “You can end a sentence with it. ‘We’re here investigating a murder, Roll Tiiiide!’” 

She was now giggling. “You are a terrible person,” she said, hitting him lightly on his arm. “And you have no room to talk. What do they say in New Orleans again?” 

Will gasped in recognition. “We say ‘Who Dat?’ but only in certain contexts.” 

She continued to laugh, and watched Will as he laughed, too. She thought, again, about how easy it was to be with him, how much she had missed laughing with him. 

He was watching her laugh. The awkwardness he had displayed after she had first arrived in Atlanta was gone. He had been reserved yesterday, too, while Jack was around, but with her he was the Will she knew, the Will she had fallen in love with. 

Then the spell broke again. Will lowered his eyes and cleared his throat, then glanced absently at the menu. Alana could read him well: he was trying, desperately, not to get attached again. Disappointed, she glanced at her own menu, not really reading it for at least twenty solid seconds. 

The waitress came to get drink orders; Alana stuck with water. Will had gone quiet again. He was studying the menu a bit too intently: she noted the faraway look in his eyes. She waited a long while before speaking to him. “Do you know what you want yet?” she asked, noticing the double meaning in her question only after it had come out of her mouth. 

He cleared his throat again. “Not yet,” he said, keeping his eyes on the menu and off of hers. Then, suddenly, he cast it aside, onto the empty polished wood of their table. “I need to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

Alana nodded, watching him go surreptitiously over the top of her menu. They really would have to talk soon, she knew. 

As she was thinking that, his phone, which lay dark and silent on the table, lit up. Alana didn’t mean to pry, but as she saw a text message from Jack, she also saw a glimpse of what was on Will’s lock screen. 

It was a picture of her and Stephen, taken that past Easter. She hadn’t cut her hair yet, so it lay long on her shoulders; she was wearing a floral jumpsuit and Stephen, in a tiny shirt and bow tie, was balanced in her arms, his head close to hers. His hair was dark and curly, like the hair of both of his parents. He had been born with a full head of it.

Alana’s father had taken that photo — she had gone to church with her parents for the first time since she was a teenager. They wanted Stephen baptized in the Catholic faith, but Alana wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, making a choice like that for him without his permission, and she hadn’t yet broached the subject with Will, who rightfully should have a say…

Will, coming back from the restroom, brought Alana out of her reverie. He sat down. “I think you got a text message,” she told him. 

He nodded and checked his phone, then, after shutting it off, he turned his gaze toward her again. “You okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah. I’m fine.” She reached a hand toward him and he grasped it. Seeing the picture had renewed the warmth in her heart and reminded her that, though things weren’t perfect between them, Will still loved her, and his son. 

Alana had told herself that she and Will needed to talk, but the moment presented itself less than an hour later, after the waitress had brought their lunch. Alana had ordered a grilled chicken salad while Will had ordered a hearty half-rack of barbecue ribs, the smell of which was driving her mad with hunger. 

When the waitress came to check on them, Will gestured to Alana’s salad. “Can you take this and bring her a plate like mine?” he asked. “I’ll pay for both.” 

The waitress glanced at Alana, who, sheepishly, nodded her consent. 

Will spoke only after the waitress left, with Alana’s salad plate in tow. “So this is the third time you’ve ordered a plate of vegetables in a restaurant and haven’t wanted to eat it.”

Alana sighed. “Don’t make me say it,” she said. Will only looked at her patiently, waiting for her to speak. 

“I’m trying to lose weight,” she said, as fast as possible. 

Will peered at her as if she had announced she was attempting to become a centaur. _“Why?”_

“Because I put on forty pounds when I was pregnant with Stephen,” she replied. “I lost a good chunk of it early on, breastfeeding him, but there’s still a lot that I haven’t been able to lose. I still can’t fit into a bunch of my old clothes.” 

Will sighed; he actually looked a little sad. “Intellectually speaking,” he said, “if you’re unhappy with your body and losing the weight will help you be happy, then do it. But if you’re doing it on my account — or anyone else’s account, for that matter — _don’t._ ” 

Alana was genuinely touched by his words. She found herself tearing up. 

He smiled softly at her and reached for her hand. “You’ve never looked more beautiful to me than when you were breastfeeding our son. You were glowing.” He shook his head. “Getting on that plane after he was born was the hardest thing I’ve ever done." 

“Why did you do it, then?” Alana asked softly, wiping away the tears from her eyes. 

“I don’t trust myself yet. You saw why the other night.” A haunted look came over his face. “I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt him, or you.” 

“Have you had any other blackouts?” she asked. “Any more dissociative episodes?”

“No. And the nightmares have been leveling off. But every time I think I’m better, they come back.” He squeezed her hand. “I don’t want Stephen to grow up seeing me like that. I don’t want him to wake up scared because I’m shouting or running from something that isn’t there.” 

“Kids adapt, Will,” Alana said. “We’ll talk to him, explain things to him —“ 

He shook his head again. “I’m the one who’s supposed to protect him from monsters. And right now, I can’t even protect myself.” He lowered his eyes and let go of her hand. “Not yet, Alana,” he said. 

She looked at him, her heart breaking all over again. What was there left to say that hadn’t already been said? She loved him and he loved her. She wanted him to come home, but he was afraid to, and the reason why he didn’t want to come home had nothing to do with her. 

She couldn’t help him. And that inability to help, to solve the problem, was a bitter pill she had to swallow, over and over again. 

They were both silent until the waitress returned with a fresh plate for Alana: a half-rack of ribs, a heap of tangy sauce on the top and sides of baked beans and cole slaw. Alana inhaled the smell of the smoked meat and looked at Will, who smiled at her approvingly, his fork suspended in his hand. “Save room,” he said. “We’re having pecan pie, too.” 

The afternoon sun was still high when Will and Alana reached the Jacobi family home in an upscale community just outside of the city. There were signs warning of horses, deer, and foxes on the side of the road, and stately homes on large, tree-filled lots peeked out from behind fences and gates. Will slowed and then stopped the car as the GPS directed him to a gate on the right side of the road, which was closed and locked. There was a realtor’s sign in front of the property. 

“Is there anyone here to meet us?” Alana asked, dismayed at seeing the locked gate. 

Will looked at her down the front of his nose. “Technically speaking, we’re not supposed to be here.” He lifted up his phone from where it sat in the cupholder. “That’s what Jack’s message was about. No okay from the local PD.” 

“So what do we do now?” 

He smiled. “Are we going to let such a little thing as a locked gate stop us?” He gestured towards the property with his head. “We’ll do a quick drive around, see the boundaries and if there are any alternate entrances. We’ve got to think like Moon Man would think. He wouldn’t let a locked gate stop him, either.” 

“Was the gate locked the night the Jacobis died?” Alana asked. 

“Yes,” Will replied. “So, either he climbed over, or there’s another way onto the property.” 

Will shifted the car out of park and it started moving again, very slowly. Alana, in the passenger seat, was closer to the property; she saw a long gravel driveway that snaked its way up to a handsome brick house with a three-car garage. “What do you see?” she asked Will. 

He nodded, leaning forward in the driver’s seat and close to the steering wheel. “I see we should have stopped for a pair of binoculars,” he said, stopping the car again, but not putting it in park. He examined the property for a few seconds, silently. “It would get pretty dark out here at night,” he said, thinking aloud. “I saw a light at the front gate, and it looks like there’s at least one floodlight by the garage. It may be triggered by motion. I’ll have to check when I go inside.” 

“So he definitely didn’t use the front, then?” Alana asked.

“If he did, he stuck to the outer boundaries of the property so he wouldn’t trigger the lights.” 

Alana nodded. “There’s a lot of trees to hide behind.” 

“And not a lot of traffic to disturb him,” Will said. “That wall is easy to hide behind, too, if he noticed some headlights coming his way.” He shifted his foot off the brake and the car rolled on, slowly. 

The Jacobi family’s property looked to be at least two and a half to three solid acres, by Alana’s eye; just enough to be isolated from their neighbors, but not in the sticks. This was a neighborhood for people who owned horses and dogs and ATVs, not farmers or hunters. Will turned the car right and they drove slowly down the north end of the property, the neighbors’ large, stately home peeking at them through the trees, and then hit a service road. 

“Ahhh,” Will exclaimed, stopping the car. “This is where he parked.” 

“Had to be,” Alana agreed. “I think the neighbors would have noticed him had he stayed too near the house.” 

Will pulled the car forward, slowly, looking left and then right. On the right side was a wooded area that bounded both the Jacobi property and the neighborhood. They had lived on the edge of it, facing the service road. Will pointed at the wooded area. “He came through there,” he said. “I doubt there’s a wall on that edge. The Jacobis probably bought this lot so the kids could explore.” 

Alana felt a pang of sadness, realizing it was what she might have done, too, for Stephen. She could see the appeal in having a safe place for children to play where they wouldn’t have to be watched constantly. _Or, at least, it must have felt safe,_ Alana thought. _But it wasn’t. No place ever is._

Will turned the car right and drove down the service road, heading southeast. Alana noted the trees were thick here, keeping the north end of the Jacobi property shady, quiet, and secluded, but also providing a lot of places for Moon Man to hide. As they crossed past the end of the Jacobi property, a brown bay horse peeped at them from a fence. “The neighbors on this side didn’t see anything?” Alana asked. 

“We have to take it for granted that the Birmingham PD asked,” Will said. “There was nothing in the report. We can always double-check on our way out.” Then Will gasped and stopped the car abruptly. “What?” Alana asked, alarmed. 

He smiled a little, wryly, and pointed in front of him. “Tire tracks,” he said. 

“You’re joking.” She craned her head to see — she could see, very slightly, a disturbance in the dirt, leading into the copse of trees. She wouldn’t have noticed it unless Will had pointed it out. 

He shook his head. “That wasn’t in the report. That means they didn’t catch them, if they are from Moon Man.” 

“Holy shit,” Alana said. “What should we do?” 

“We’ll have to mark it, then call the field office to get techs out here.” He leaned back in his seat a little, exhaling air with a humph. “It’s been a month.” 

“Do you think they’ll get anything useful?” 

“Maybe. Hopefully, we’ll get a better idea of what type of car he drives. That may help narrow the possibilities.” Will pointed his head forward again. “We won’t park there. We’ll park further down, go in the way he did and keep an eye out for anything else.” 

“The Birmingham PD thought he came through the front of the house, I think,” Alana remarked. 

Will nodded, then looked at her. “They might not be his. Could be local folks checking out a murder house.” 

“In this neighborhood?” Alana scoffed. “Nah, the neighbors would call the police in a second if they saw that.” 

He smiled at her a little. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed, that’s all.” 

“The devil is smoke,” Alana said, glancing again at the barest hint of tire tracks in the dirt and thinking about something Abel Gideon had told her, a long time ago. 

Will put the car in park, popped the trunk, then got out. He rifled around in the trunk for a minute or two, then Alana heard the rip of fabric. He walked around to the passenger side, where she still sat, and then across the embankment to the copse of trees. Alana watched him as he examined the scene — walking around carefully, then squatting, then taking pictures with his phone camera. Finally, he tied a ripped white t-shirt to a tree directly next to the tire tracks. 

“There hasn’t been a single car down this service road since we’ve been here,” Alana said when he came back up to the car. 

He nodded. “That would have made it easy for him to hide. He had plenty of time to drive the car into those trees and make sure it was hidden.” He checked his watch. “It’s just past two p.m. on a weekday. It’s summer, so there may have been some people around, but it looks like most everyone in this neighborhood is at work. I think we can assume that there’s next to no traffic here during the day.” 

Alana saw him, then, glance around next to the car. “Lots of hoof prints,” he continued. “Looks like horseshoes to me.” 

“He’d have to pull in pretty far to make sure he was hidden,” Alana said, “if the horses are coming that close.” 

“And if there were any other tire tracks here, the traffic from the horses over the course of a month would have erased them.” He walked around the car, then got back into the driver’s seat. “We’ll have to keep a lookout when we go in there, to see if we can find where he parked.” 

Will drove down further along the service road, still keeping his speed slow. On the corner of the service road, close to a mile from the Jacobi property, was an apartment complex. Will asked Alana to check both Google and Apple maps to see what else was in the area. 

Alana used her phone while Will drove. He made another right across from the apartment complex, then drove back around to the entrance of the Jacobi’s development. “There’s not much,” she said. “The nearest shopping center is down past the apartments, just over a mile, looks like. There’s a Walmart there. All of this looks pretty new.” 

“Where does the service road lead?” 

Alana zoomed the map back out, then scrolled up the service road. “Water management,” she said. 

“So no shopping centers, housing developments, parks, highways?” 

“No,” she replied. 

Will nodded again. “The neighborhood where the Leedses lived was much more developed. Coming out here would have been a great risk, but a great reward.” 

“More places to hide,” Alana said.

“And fewer places to escape to if he was caught,” Will responded. 

“I don’t think he’s weighing the risk that way,” Alana said. “Or, at least, the element of risk isn’t high on his list.” 

“The Jacobis still weren’t that easy a target,” Will said. “Their property is a little isolated, but not a lot. Plus, you have loads of people out here on horseback and ATV.”

“And the Leedses were in the Atlanta suburbs,” Alana added. “Lots of people there, too, watching out.” 

“I still think there’s something else drawing him in,” Will said softly, thoughtfully. “It’s not the houses. It’s the women.” 

“He could be stalking them. It would be easy — go to the Walmart, find a cute mom, watch as she fills up the car and follow her home. Boom, he knows where she lives. Women worry about that all of the time.” 

Will glanced at her, then nodded again. They were traveling back up the Jacobis’ street, past the signs warning of horses and deer and foxes. Only once did another car pass them, a Cadillac Escalade that gleamed black in the sunlight, a blonde woman behind the wheel. 

Will was silent as he parked the car further northwest down the service road. “We’ll approach from the back,” he said, as Alana stepped out of the car and stretched. Her own sweat was sticking her linen top to her back. Will opened the trunk again, then removed a lightweight backpack. “Some supplies,” he said as he shrugged it on. “Hand me your purse. Just bring your phone and IDs — license and FBI, if you have it.” 

She rifled through her purse, putting her phone in her front pocket and her IDs in the breast pocket of her shirt. “You don’t have an FBI ID,” she pointed out. 

“Yes,” he agreed, taking her purse and placing it in the trunk of the car. “Which is why we’re going to need to be very careful.” 

“We’re trespassing, then.” 

“If anything happens, Jack will take care of it,” he said, closing the trunk. “But Jack doesn’t want to _have_ to take care of it. He implied that very heavily to me.” 

They walked down the service road towards the back of the Jacobi property. The sun, still high, was beating down on them. Alana was wearing her tortoiseshell Tory Burch sunglasses; Will, who rarely wore sunglasses, had even put his on, a decent pair of simple brown Ray-Ban Wayfarers she had bought for him. She was glad to see them on him. 

They entered the trees next to the torn white t-shirt Will had used to mark where he had seen the tire tracks. The ground was slightly lower and softer before it rose in a gentle slope deeper into the trees. Alana stayed close to Will, following behind him, trying to put her feet where he put his so as to not disturb the earth any more than necessary. 

Will walked very slowly and carefully, looking closely at the small ridges in the soil over his left shoulder. Alana grasped onto his backpack to keep her footing. After a minute or so, he extended his right arm behind him and Alana grasped his hand. “There may be footprints there,” he said, pausing and pointing. “It looks like he parked here, then exited the driver’s side of the car.” 

He stopped again to remove his sunglasses and take a few more pictures with his phone. Alana took off her sunglasses, pushing them onto the crown of her head, and squatted down next to him, trying to see what he saw. 

He saw her looking and smiled at her fondly. “Boot prints,” he said, pointing. “It’s been too long so we won’t get the tread, but we may be able to get an approximate size.” He pointed again. “He exited the driver’s side here, then walked around to the trunk of the car. See the prints there?”

Alana tried to see. “Not really,” she said, sighing. 

“That’s okay,” he said gently, still smiling at her. “You’re still doing great.” 

After Will had taken a good amount of photos, they both stood and walked together, keeping to the side of where Moon Man’s footprints may have gone. But the pine trees were thick now and their brown needles lay on the ground like a carpet. It was shadier now and Alana heard the songs of birds, the hums of bugs, an occasional rustle from some creature. 

“There it is,” Will said, pointing up. Alana tilted her head and saw the back of the Jacobis’ house: the roof and upper level, the top of a handsome oak tree. 

They walked for a little longer — perhaps three hundred feet, with Will checking for footprints all the way — until they reached a chain-link fence. The Jacobis’ house was in view, silent and still. The oak tree shaded the large back porch and there was a swimming pool to the left of the house, a black safety fence still visible on the beige pool deck. The pool was clean and the water clear. 

Will stopped at the fence and turned to her. “I’ll go inside. I want you to stay out here and look for anything else that may have been missed.” 

A spike of doubt rose in Alana’s chest: _What if I miss something? What if I’m not good enough?_ She thought of Will spotting the footprints she couldn’t see, the tire tracks that, admittedly, she wasn’t sure if she would have noticed had he not pointed them out. 

He must have noticed her face, because he smiled at her and rubbed her shoulder. “Alana, you are a talented detective in your own right. Don’t doubt yourself.” His warm palm moved up to caress her face. “Stay near the trees and out of sight,” he said seriously. “Anything happens — _anything_ — you run and call Jack. Don’t come on to the property.” 

“Will —“

“Please. The last thing we need is both of us picking up charges for trespassing. Or worse.” He caressed her cheek once more. “I’ll be fine. Keep your eyes open. I’ll be back in a bit.” 

With that, he climbed over the fence, still remarkably agile. Alana watched him walk away, looking more like he was off on a camping trip in his jeans and work shirt rather than investigating a murder scene. 

She turned away from the house, focusing instead on the trees. The pine needles lay on the ground like a thick blanket, the ridges of pinecones and fallen branches poking through in spots. She walked a little, stopping occasionally, not sure what she should be looking for but knowing, only, that she was looking for anything out of place. 

Then she heard Will’s voice. “Alana? I found the cat’s grave, I think,” she heard him call. 

Alana walked back toward the fence. Will was standing at the base of the oak tree, his feet on the roots that had popped their way out of the ground. “The dirt is disturbed here,” he said. “I’ll mark it for the field office.” She saw him bend down to take pictures and examine the area. 

She began to think, to try to find something to hold on to. Moon Man had, somehow, found this place. He didn’t go in right away — he cased the place, stayed for a while, watched the family. The kids had been home for summer, so they probably used the pool; if so, Mrs. Jacobi would have been out there in her swimsuit, and Moon Man would have watched her, filled with lust for her…

Alana noted where Will was squatting at the cat’s grave, taking photos, and where the pool was: they were both visible from where she was standing. But Moon Man would have been seen by the family, had he been standing at the fence. 

She turned around, looking at the trees. Most of them were tall, thin pines, unsuitable for climbing. She turned and walked deeper into the woods, keeping her path as straight as possible from both the pool and the oak tree in the Jacobis’ backyard. 

She looked, trying to find anything that was helpful: footprints, disturbed branches or undergrowth. But she could find nothing. She turned her body, glanced over her shoulder, walked backwards. He wouldn’t have gone too far away…just enough so he could stay out of sight and still watch the children, the husband, Mrs. Jacobi…

At the base of an elm tree, a glimpse of silver in the sun. Alana bent down and picked it up — it was an aluminum can, crumpled in the way that men liked to crumple it, to show their strength…

“You _motherfucker,_ ” she heard herself say. 

There were black ants crawling around it, looking for the last bits of sugar that would have been in the can. It was a Dr. Pepper, regular. She knew it was Moon Man’s as surely as she knew Stephen was her son. 

She walked around the base of the tree, looking for more: there was an empty potato chip bag, a crushed water bottle, two wrappers from protein bars, and an apple core, still somewhat intact after a month on the ground. Alana looked up, trying to see if there was anything stuck in the tree, when it occurred to her — maybe he had climbed the tree for a better view, especially of Mrs. Jacobi, his quarry…

Alana hadn’t climbed a tree since she was a teenager. She had never been particularly athletic, instead sticking to books and animals, and had never been the type to scale fences into places where she shouldn’t be. 

She planted her foot, clad in a Keds sneaker, onto the tree trunk. The bottom branches were just within her reach — she grabbed one with both hands and hoisted herself up, panting with fear and accomplishment as she realized she was _in the fucking tree._

She was only about four feet off the ground, but felt a surge of fear as she looked below her, squeezing a branch to the side of her tightly and feeling the scratchy bark on her palm. She planted her feet firmly on the branch, thinking of gymnasts, listening for any cracks. It was strong underneath her. She looked up, trying to find another branch to lift herself up higher, and saw it. 

There was something carved into the trunk of the tree. 

Alana inched forward on the branch supporting her feet. She didn’t want to think of what would happen if the branch broke — even at only four or five feet off the ground, she could still be injured…

_That’s useless_ , she told herself. _Focus. What the fuck is that carving?_

She inched forward again, getting closer to the carving, carefully turning her body and putting out her hands to steady herself until both of her hands were on the trunk. 

She looked at it: the five cuts were firm, clear, artful. There was no hesitation in the marks, no sign of unevenness. It was about a foot above her eyeline — if she would have done it, she would have had to reach up above her head, but the carver was obviously taller than her. It was an adult, then, or at least someone fully grown. 

Holding her left palm flat and steady against the tree trunk, Alana used her right hand to fish her phone out of her front pocket. She had to operate it one-handed, using her thumb to slide open the camera, to aim it, to shoot. She took a lot of pictures to make sure none of them were shaky. 

When she was done, she carefully placed the phone back in her pocket, then continued searching. She didn’t see anything else in the tree; she looked down, saw the spots under the tree where she had found the trash, and knew he had stood here, his feet on the very same branch hers were now on, and watched the Jacobis. 

Alana looked forward, seeing clearly the back of the house, the pool, the tree, the windows of the bedrooms where the family slept…  
Will’s voice in her head: _I see we should have stopped for a pair of binoculars._

With binoculars, Moon Man would have seen everything: the expressions on the children’s faces, the glint of Mrs. Jacobi’s auburn hair. That was all he needed. He could stand here on this tree and gorge himself with food and watching, thinking of what would happen later…

Alana made her way back down to the ground slowly and carefully, sitting on the branch and then sliding herself off, her feet hitting the ground with a little pain in her ankles. She pulled out her phone and saw the pictures she had taken of the carving, feeling a stir of recognition. 

_Jenny._

Alana’s mind went to Jenny Wong, one of her best friends since they were both in graduate school at Johns Hopkins, and a game that Jenny had once tried to teach her: mahjong. Alana remembered the crackling sound of tiles on the black kitchen table, Jenny’s hands over them, her nails coated in pearly purple nail polish, the smell of mint tea…

Alana opened her text messages and selected the string of texts she shared with Jenny, the majority of the most recent ones talking about Stephen, and Jenny’s twin daughters, setting up playdates…

She selected two of the photos, then texted her: _Do you know what this is?_

After Alana sent the message, she wasn’t sure if Jenny would respond quickly — it was the middle of the day, and Jenny was probably with a patient — but the gray bubble with an ellipsis appeared, then an emoji: 🀄︎

_That’s the red dragon_ , she said. 

_What does it mean?_ Alana texted back. 

_A hit,_ Jenny responded, after a few moments. _A pass. The middle of something._ A pause, then another message. _What are you up to?_

Alana smiled, even laughed a little. _I’m on a case and I just found a clue. Our killer knows Mahjong, apparently._

_WOW_ , Jenny wrote back. _Is he Chinese?_

_I doubt it,_ Alana responded. 

_Well, the only people that play Mahjong any more are old people,_ she said. _So is he old?_

Alana smiled. _No,_ she said. _But he knew people who were._ She thought of porcelain dolls, lined up on a bed… 

__She heard a whistle and saw Will walking towards her, wearing his sunglasses and backpack. “The house was a bust,” he announced. “It’s all been redone.”_ _

__“I found stuff,” she said, gesturing to the ground, where the trash was still strewn about._ _

__Will broke out into a grin. “Really? That’s amazing!” He squatted on the ground. “That’s his trash,” he said._ _

__“And there’s more,” she said, opening her phone and showing him the photos she took. “It’s up in the tree. I texted Jenny and she said it’s the Red Dragon symbol, from Mahjong.”_ _

__Will took her phone and scrolled through the photos with his thumb, using his fingers to zoom in and out. Then, suddenly, he looked at her, pulled her close to him, and kissed her passionately on the lips._ _

__Alana was surprised for a moment, but then she leaned into the kiss, feeling his mouth warm on hers, her hands reaching up to wrap themselves in his damp hair, involuntarily. They kissed for a time — Alana had no idea how long — before Will broke the kiss and lay his forehead on hers. “You’re fucking brilliant, you know,” he said. “An absolute genius.”_ _

__Alana laughed and hugged him, loving the feel of him in her arms, him warm against her. “I climbed the tree,” she said excitedly, finding herself giggling before she stopped herself. “I stood where he stood. He watched them from up there.”_ _

__She watched as Will climbed the tree, leaping up easily, his body agile from a year spent on boats. He stood on the branch, fitting better than she did, then turned toward the carving. “I’m five foot ten,” he told her, “and this carving is at my eye level. So our guy’s around that height.” Alana watched him as he mimed taking out a knife and carving the Red Dragon into the tree. “Yeah,” he said absently. “We’re around the same height, give or take an inch or so.”_ _

__With that, Will turned his head and body toward the house. “You can see both the pool and the oak tree from there,” Alana said, “along with the windows on the upper floor.”_ _

He nodded. “With binoculars, he would have seen everything.” He was silent for a few moments, thinking, then spoke. “He was up here for a while. He ate his snacks and watched the family. He saw them find and bury the cat, watched them settle in for dinner, then moved once they were in bed for the night. Son of a _bitch_.” 

__

__Hours later, as the sun was setting, Will and Alana sat in the rental car and watched the FBI field agents process the evidence they had found in the copse of trees. Alana had stayed in the front passenger seat, but Will was sitting in the backseat next to her._ _

__Jack had been beside himself with joy when Will called him. “Alana,” he had said, his voice still resonant through the phone speaker. “I am so very proud of you. And I know Will is, too. You did truly great work today.”_ _

__“Thank you, Jack,” she had said, genuinely touched._ _

__After promising both Will and Alana drinks when he saw them next, Jack hung up and called the field office. Will and Alana stayed to answer the field agents’ questions and tell them what they had found, and now they were sitting in the car, watching the field agents in their blue jackets emblazoned with the letters _FBI._ _ _

__Will reached for her hand and she grasped it, then looked at him. He looked calm and happy, comfortable in his own skin; he loved his work and he loved doing it with Alana. And she had loved doing it with him — she had not had such a perfect day since the day Stephen had been born._ _

__“What do we do now?” she asked him._ _

__“Oh, we’ve got loads. But…”_ _

__“But what?”_ _

__He smiled a little. “It’s way out of our way, but we have the car and the FBI is paying, so…”_ _

__Despite the urgency in catching this killer in the limited window they had, she knew — he didn’t want to leave her._ _

__And she didn’t want to leave him._ _

__“Where do you want to go?” she asked._ _

__The next morning, they set out early, still together. And almost seven hours later, as the sun was lowering in the livid summer sky, they arrived in Lafayette, Louisiana, the only place that could be considered a hometown for Will._ _

__They spent what was left of the day driving around — he showed her the home he had lived in, a small blue nondescript house on a quiet residential street. The house had a carport and jalousie windows and an oak tree in the front. A black Ford F-150 was parked in the driveway, but Will didn’t want to go inside._ _

__They went to the graveyard where Will’s father was buried so that he could visit his father's grave. Will left a toy boat on top of the headstone. There were no tears. Then there was dinner at an excellent diner where Will taught Alana how to eat crawfish. It was messy and funny and not at all cultured and utterly perfect._ _

__Just like Will was, for her._ _

__They drove back to Atlanta that night, Alana taking the wheel for part of the trip so that Will could rest. He slept deeply and did not appear to have any nightmares. She sang along to Fleetwood Mac and listened to podcasts._ _

__They dropped the car off at the airport and Will came with her on the shuttle to her terminal, carrying his bag as well. At Jack’s request, he would remain in Atlanta for a few more days to assist the local police; Alana had to head back to D.C. and their son, whom she missed terribly. They walked together through the terminal, going as far as they could. Then, in front of airport security, they embraced and clung to each other._ _

__She breathed him in: his arms around her, so comforting and familiar, his beating heart and living breath next to her cheek. “Will,” she said softly. “I’ve been so happy. I just wanted to tell you that.”_ _

__As his answer, he kissed her — the top of her head, her forehead, her cheeks, then, finally, her lips. “I love you, Alana,” he said._ _

__“I love you, too,” she said, and her eyes were filling up with tears again and then they were spilling over, onto her cheeks. She was aware of the noise of the airport, other passengers moving impatiently around them, but all that mattered to her in that moment was him._ _

__Finally, after a long while, he let her go. “Go on, Mommy,” he said. “I’ll watch you go through.”_ _

__She wiped the tears from her eyes, then turned away from him, gathering her small suitcase and purse. Before she joined the line for security, she looked back at him. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, smiling at her, no longer awkward and fearful._ _

__As Alana walked through the snaking security line, she chanced a glance back, every so often. Will was leaning on a pillar, just watching her. He was true to his word: he was watching her go through, and wouldn’t leave until she was done._ _

__As she reached the screening area, she turned back, one more time, to look at him, and blew him a kiss. Will put a hand over his heart._ _

__And with that, she stepped into the screening area, toward her waiting gate and her son and her life in northern Virginia._ _

__She felt full after their parting — a quiet contentedness, like living in a house one loved. Whatever she and Will were, and whatever he was…she was happier with him, happier and more complete._ _


	4. Chapter Four

Where can I go from your Spirit?  
Where can I flee from your presence?  
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;  
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.  
— Psalm 139, NIV

Will remained in Atlanta for another three days. A neighbor of the Leeds family had spotted a man dressed in a uniform from the local phone company puttering around close to the family’s home the day before the murders. The local police had made a composite sketch and Will, along with some of the other detectives and local police, had gone door-to-door seeking any other information. But they had found nothing of real value.

Will had sent Alana a proof of the sketch. _Any opinions on this?_ he had texted her with the image. Alana had stared at the composite, which showed a white man with dark blonde hair, slicked back, and a brown goatee. The man could have been any number of American men, from any place in the country. It was still too broad to be of much help. _He’s still smoke,_ Alana had texted back. 

The evidence she and Will had found on the Jacobis’ property did provide some leads, though. Will and Alana’s hunch that Moon Man drove an SUV bore fruit — the tire size from the tracks Will had found corresponded to older SUVs and other types of off-road vehicles. The Jacobi family’s cat had been strangled and buried soon after it died, so Moon Man had likely killed it the same morning he had killed the family. The FBI lab was still working on getting what DNA and trace evidence they could off of the trash Alana had found at the base of the elm tree. 

But the most useful evidence, by far, was the Red Dragon. 

Alana, Beverly, and Zeller had been doing searches for anything having to do with the term — internet screen names, blogs, LLCs. The FBI sent a notice to all the major news outlets to be on the lookout for any correspondence mentioning the term. It was the barest hint of a clue in a case loaded with them, but Alana felt like it was something that might bear fruit, given enough time. 

Time, however, was a luxury they were running short on. A full week had now passed since Will and Alana had traveled to Atlanta, and a full ten days since the Leeds family was murdered. They were long since buried, but both Alana and Will knew that Moon Man would be searching for his next family soon, if he wasn’t doing it already. 

They spoke every evening, when Alana was home from the Academy and Will was back in his hotel. He looked exhausted again and, once, even fell asleep while she was on the phone with him. He had called back a few hours later, apologetic and regretful. “The heat got to me, I think,” he had said. 

“Are you taking care of yourself?” she asked. “Make sure you eat plenty of good food and drink plenty of water.” 

She saw him nod over the FaceTime screen. His eyes had deep bags underneath them and he was pale. “I’m driving back to Birmingham tomorrow,” he said. “The Jacobis’ lawyer has a storage unit full of their stuff. The rest of their family hasn’t gone through it yet.” 

“Do you think that will help?” Alana asked. 

He shrugged. “The inside of the house was useless. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find. I just have to try something.” 

Alana nodded. “I understand,” she said softly. 

The next day, after searching through the Jacobi family’s personal items proved futile, Will told Alana he had to ask her a serious question: “Does Hannibal Lecter know we have a child?”

Alana was silent for a while, thinking. Hannibal knew her home address and had been sending letters there, to both Will and herself, until both Alana and Will had sacked him, as well as Dr. Chilton, with restraining orders. Will had been present at Stephen’s birth and was listed as his father on his birth certificate, though Stephen’s last name remained Bloom. Freddie Lounds, in her rush to dish about Alana and Will’s visit to the FBI field office in Atlanta, hadn’t bothered to do her research, but Alana knew that finding Stephen’s birth certificate would be quick work for anyone with the interest and a little know-how. Will, for his part, had gone underground; his only known address was a P.O. box in Marathon. Alana wasn’t even sure if his trailer, in the boatyard run by Bruce and Nadine McConnell, had a street address. 

But there was also the FBI to contend with. Alana had taught at the Academy while pregnant, and she knew that it was a well-known rumor that Will Graham, her partner of three years, was almost certainly the father of her baby. She used the money Will sent every month to put Stephen in preschool with the children of other FBI agents and staff. Will and his business had always been a popular topic of gossip around Quantico, and Alana was sure that extended to herself. 

“To be honest, Will, I don’t know,” she answered, finally. “I’m sure there were — _are_ — rumors. I just don’t know if they ever reached Hannibal.” She paused, then continued. “I trust Jack would have the good sense not to say anything to Hannibal, even if he asked. I can’t say the same for anyone else who may have worked with him. But why are you asking this?” 

Will sighed, looking bone-tired. “Jack wants me in the BAU. I’m supposed to travel up tomorrow. And while I’m in the area, I think I should go see _him._ ”

Alana felt her stomach lurch, and then a surge of anger rose in her, uncontrollable and fierce. “You mean see Hannibal? Hannibal fucking Lecter?” Will’s face, slightly grainy on Alana’s cell phone screen, was still. 

“Will! You can’t! _You know what seeing Hannibal can do to you!_ ”

Will shook his head, his mouth twisting in grief. “Alana, in less than two weeks, there will be a dead father. Multiple dead children. A mother, brutally raped and murdered.” Alana saw him lean forward and put his head into his hands. “I need to stop it as much as I am able. This guy — he’s still a ghost to me. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know where we can even _start_ looking for him. We have more than we did a week ago, but it’s not enough.” 

Alana sighed and felt herself slump in defeat. “Will, my love, _please_ —“ 

But he continued. “Lecter gave me Garrett Jacob Hobbs by killing a girl. I don’t have that this time around — nor do I want it. But we’ve got nothing but suspicion. We need something more if we’re going to find this guy before the next full moon.” 

Alana shook her head. “Hannibal didn’t give you _anything. You_ found Garrett Jacob Hobbs — you found _Hannibal._ You don’t _need_ him to find this one. You can solve this case without him.” She looked at his face, at his weary eyes. “I know you’re doubting yourself,” she said. “You’ve been out of the field for years, and Hannibal hurt you badly. But whatever you get from him, it won’t be free. You’ll pay for it somehow. All I am asking you is to ask yourself whether or not what he has to offer is worth the price.”

Will was silent. He lowered his head. 

Alana spoke to him tenderly. “I can’t stop you and I know better than to try. But please think this through. I am begging you.” 

The next evening, Alana was sitting on the patio of the closest Starbucks to her home — rather, the home she had shared with Will. Stephen was next to her in his stroller, mouthing his teether and making cooing noises. Will had texted her an hour ago, saying he was almost in town and asking her to meet him there. 

Because Will wasn’t driving his old Volvo, Alana hadn’t realized he had arrived until she saw him walking towards them, wearing a dark blue linen shirt, chinos, and sneakers. Alana’s heart leapt and a burst of love for him, so powerful that it made her heart ache, rose within her. “Look, Stevie!” she said excitedly, pointing at Will. “It’s Daddy!” 

Will spotted them and a huge grin split his face — it was that special grin that he reserved only for her, the one that made him look so much younger. Alana hugged him and found herself laughing with joy and relief as she felt his beating heart against her cheek, felt his warmth and smelled his familiar smell of soap and aftershave. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, running a hand through her hair. 

“You always say that,” she replied, chuckling. He pulled her chin up a little to kiss her on the lips, and she let him. 

“It’s because it’s true,” he said. His eyes traveled from her to Stephen, who was lounging in his stroller, looking up at him with bright eyes. “Look at him!” Will exclaimed. “He’s huge!” 

Alana, laughing, took Stephen out from his stroller and put him in Will’s arms. She wasn’t sure how Stephen would respond — he was in the phase where he really only wanted her, or his grandparents — but he seemed happy with Will. “Baa baa baa baa,” he cooed contentedly, sucking on his teether. 

“My little man,” Will said, and kissed the crown of Stephen’s head and buried his face in his hair. Alana saw that his eyes were filling with tears. “I’ve missed so much,” he said, the tone of his voice sad and a little desperate. 

“Oh, he’s just getting started,” Alana said, rubbing Will’s shoulder. “Come. Let’s sit with him for a bit.” 

Will sat down next to her in another metal chair, admiring Stephen. “See?” she asked, after a minute or two. “Don’t you think he looks like you?”

Will smiled. He looked the happiest she had ever seen him look, she thought. “I think he looks more like _you_ ,” he said. “He’s beautiful.” 

“He is,” Alana agreed, stroking their son’s curls fondly. “And he’s a good boy. Not much of a crier. More than a bit shy, but everyone loves him.” She stroked his soft skin. “And _Jack_ …Jack adores him. He gave me a blue onesie for him with FBI on it.” 

Will looked at her and chuckled again. He was grinning so wide that his teeth glinted in the low evening light.

They sat together with Stephen for a while. Alana asked Stephen if he could say “Dada,” as he was getting close to saying his first words. “Ba ba baba,” Stephen replied instead, and both she and Will laughed. 

Alana drank up the sight of them together, Will and Stephen, and the way Will’s face, which had grown worn from so much tragedy and worry, seemed to lighten. The last time Will had held Stephen, he had been a tiny, pink squalling infant; now, he was a boy with bright blue eyes and a head full of dark curls, able to sit up on his own on his father’s lap. 

“Where are you staying tonight?” Alana asked Will. 

He looked at her, still bouncing Stephen on his knee. “I’m fine. I was going to stay in a hotel.”

Alana shook her head. “Come home,” she said gently. “You can sleep downstairs if it will make you feel better, but don’t stay in a hotel when you have a home to go to.” 

Will paused for a moment, then winced. “Umm…I’m not alone.” 

“What do you mean, you’re not alone? Who’s with you?” 

He winced harder. “The Leeds’s dog.” 

Alana gasped. “Will! You _didn’t!_ ” 

“There was no one to claim her; she was in a cage at the vet’s office,” he said insistently. “I couldn’t just leave her.” 

Alana sighed and put her head into her hands, exasperated. “Of course you took the dog. _Of course._ ” 

A few minutes later, they were all standing next to Will’s rental SUV. The Leeds’s dog, a spotted breed that looked like an Australian Shepherd, stared at them forlornly from a large dog bed in the back. A plastic cone was still around her head. Alana’s heart melted in pity. “What’s her name?” she asked.

“Lucy,” Will answered. “That was what the Leedses called her, anyway.” 

“Hi, Lucy,” Alana said, sitting down in the open back hatch and scooting back towards the dog, just a little. “Hi, sweetheart.” She extended a hand to Lucy to sniff, then reached forward carefully and pet the dog’s head. Lucy whimpered a little. 

“She’s been through hell, sounded like,” Will said. “The son of a bitch stabbed her repeatedly with an awl, almost killed her.” 

Alana stroked her dappled head. “You’re hopeless,” she told Will. “And so am I.” She found herself smiling at the dog. “She really is beautiful. She could be Winston and Sammy’s sister.” 

“Yeah, I’ll take her back to the pack when I get a chance,” Will said. “They’ll take care of her.” 

Just then, Stephen, who was still in Will’s arms, pointed at her. “Doggy,” he said, as clear as day. 

Will cracked up laughing. “Was that his first word?” he asked. 

Alana nodded. “Yep,” she said, looking at her son and smiling at him fondly. “Of course your first word is _doggy._ Why would I have expected anything different?” 

“Doggy,” Stephen said again, then squealed. 

Once they had all traveled back to Alana’s house — _their_ house — Alana fished around in the fridge for something to cook for their dinner while Will brought in Lucy and his suitcase. “You don’t have to cook anything,” he said as he came into the kitchen. Stephen was in his high chair scooping some cheese puffs into his mouth. 

She smiled at him. “I don’t mind.” She laid a pack of brown eggs on the counter, then a bag of spinach. “I would love to use my culinary talents for something other than chicken nuggets. I think I can whip up a spinach souffle, if that’s okay with you.” 

“That sounds delicious,” Will said. He ruffled Stephen’s hair. “Doggy,” Stephen said, pointing at his father. 

Alana giggled. “Not quite,” she said, catching Will’s eye. 

“Close enough,” he said, nodding his head. 

An hour later, the whole family was sitting at the dining room table. Alana had opened a bottle of white wine to pair with the souffle, tomato soup, and some frozen French bread. Will and Alana spent the time talking to Stephen, who was sitting in his high chair and squealing at them. Alana had served him a little food, but he didn’t seem hungry; he seemed far more interested in his father, then his mother, and then his parents together. Every now and again, Alana would catch Will’s eye across the table, and they would smile at each other. 

After dinner came Stephen’s bath and bedtime. Alana had to admit to herself that it was a relief to have Will there, to sit with Stephen next to the bathtub while she showered and changed out of her clothes. She put on a small spritz of her bottle of Velvet Rose and Oud and then a silk nightdress. 

As she walked the short distance out of her bathroom and then to the upstairs bathroom, she heard Will talking to Stephen. “That’s a boat. Can you say _boat_?” 

“Baaht,” Stephen responded. 

Alana walked into the bathroom and, just for a moment, drank in the sight of them: Stephen in the bathtub, grasping his toy boat, and Will seated on the bathroom rug beside him, talking to him. Will must have sensed her presence because, another moment later, he turned his head towards her and smiled. “He’s trying,” he said. 

Alana sat down opposite him, on the closed lid of the toilet next to the bathtub. “He said his first clear word today. A milestone. That’s enough work for one day.” She turned toward Stephen, who still had his red toy boat grasped firmly in his fist. “Stephen, you know what Dada does? He fixes boats. Dada loves boats.” 

Stephen squealed. “Baaht,” he said again. 

It was nearly nine by the time Alana and Will had pulled Stephen out of his bath and dried and changed him for bed. Stephen’s bedroom, which was formerly the guest room, was filled with the furniture Will had put together for him the week he was born: a crib, a dresser. In the year since Will had last been in the room, Alana had bought nautical-themed items to brighten it. A framed photo of Will and Alana in the hospital, Stephen a tiny bundle in her arms, sat on the dresser. Alana took the photo off of the dresser and handed it to Will. 

“I remember this,” Will said. “The nurse took it for us.” He chuckled. “You were a champ. You pushed him out and then wanted pancakes.” 

She laughed in response. “And you got me some. Pancakes and an omelette.” She pulled a book out of a basket on Stephen’s dresser. “What’ll it be tonight, my love? _Goodnight Moon_?” 

Both Stephen and Will responded by looking at her. “I suppose I did mean both of you,” she said, laughing again. “Stevie? You want Dada to read you _Goodnight Moon_?” The baby chittered and clapped his hands in response. 

Alana sat on the carpet next to Will, who sat with Stephen on his lap, reading Goodnight Moon to his son. Will’s brown curly head was bent down, his eyes on the book, while Stephen grasped at the pages and cooed and gurgled. When Will was done reading the story, Alana clapped her hands, encouraging Stephen to do the same. 

Alana and Will placed Stephen in his crib, then Alana went to turn on the nightlight that projected stars on the walls and played music while Will stayed standing next to the baby. Alana returned to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you were here tonight,” she said softly. 

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m glad I was, too.” 

Alana smiled at him and leaned in for a kiss, which he returned on her lips, gentle and sweet. “Go settle in,” she told him. “You can sleep wherever you like.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that an invitation?”

She chuckled. “It is if you want it to be.” 

He smiled, then turned away from the crib and left the room, closing the door with a soft _snick_. A few seconds later, Alana heard his footsteps on the stairs. 

After Stephen had drifted off to sleep, Alana left his bedroom and stopped off in her own, which was just as she had left it. Will’s suitcase was still downstairs. 

Alana went downstairs herself and found Will sitting next to Lucy, who was still resting on the large dog bed. A plate with scrambled eggs was in front of her, and she was eating them tentatively. “How is she?” Alana asked, sitting down next to him and patting the dog’s head. Lucy whimpered a little, but then leaned in to her touch. 

“I took her out in the back to pee,” Will said. “She didn’t want the kibble, so I made her some eggs. I’ll buy you more tomorrow.” 

Alana noted the concern in his voice. “I’m glad she’s with you,” she replied. “Forget what I said earlier. And don’t worry about the eggs — you can eat or make whatever you want.” 

He smiled a little at her. Alana leaned in close to him and Will, taking the hint, kissed her — she felt a hand, warm, on the side of her face. When the kiss was done, he leaned back a little. “You smell…good. Like roses and something else I can’t place.” 

Alana’s heart warmed, unexpectedly, at how unsophisticated he still was, and how much she loved that about him. “It’s oud,” she said. “A rare oriental wood. Unless you’ve been to a bazaar in the Middle East or Southeast Asia, you’ve never smelled it.” She leaned in close to him, again, and he nuzzled her neck. “Do you like it?” she asked. 

“I don’t know anything about perfume,” he said softly. “But I like everything you wear.” 

Alana ended the embrace and cradled the side of his face in her hand. “You look exhausted,” she said. “Go upstairs and take a shower. I’ll make your bed down here, so you can stay with her.” 

His mouth twisted again, in the way his guilt expressed itself. “You don’t have to.” 

“I want to,” she said firmly. “I’ll be down here when you’re done. I’ll help you get ready for tomorrow.” 

At that, Will visibly slumped. “Helping you is more useful than fighting you,” Alana continued. “If you insist on seeing him, I won’t let you go see him unarmed.” 

Wordlessly, Will kissed her fingers and then her palm, then rose and went to his suitcase, picking out his underclothes and toiletries before going upstairs. Just a few minutes passed before she heard the water run. Alana continued to stroke Lucy, who looked up at her, dolefully. “Hey, Lucy Goosey,” Alana said. “Want some applesauce?” 

It was just after ten when Alana heard a soft knock on the office door; she raised her head from the desk and looked at Will, who was standing in the doorway in his t-shirt and boxer shorts. His hair was damp. “You don’t have to knock,” she said. “It’s your office.” 

Will looked around the room — his diplomas were still on the wall opposite the desk, along with the pictures of him and his father, and him when he was with the New Orleans Police Department. “I left everything just as you left it,” Alana continued, watching him. “I come in here to work, but otherwise, it’s still yours.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said softly, walking into the room, his slippers soft on the hardwood floor. “You shouldn’t have.” 

“I wanted to. Some nights, when Stevie can’t sleep, I bring him in here and point to all the pictures of you and tell him about you, and about us.” As she finished speaking, Will lowered his head, his mouth twisting in grief and guilt. Alana felt a pang of grief in her own heart — a strong wave of sadness that was physically painful. 

Wanting to avoid the feeling, she lowered her head again to the open file folder on her desk. It was Moon Man’s file — the one that Will would take to Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. As Will came up to the desk, she placed some of her own notes, handwritten, into the folder. “Treats,” she said. “For Hannibal.” 

Will shrugged. “I was just going to bring him some Dean and DeLuca,” he said, drolly. 

Alana smiled at him fondly. “He’d like that. He’d also like these.” She looked at him again, more seriously. “Are you sure you want to go alone tomorrow?” 

He nodded. His gaze slid, slowly, towards hers; he held her eyes for a moment, then lowered his eyes back to the desk. Alana closed the file folder and placed her hand on it. “I meant it when I said I won’t argue with you,” she said. “I just want you to be careful. Don’t let him in. I’m here for you, and I love you.” 

Will lowered his head even more, and Alana, automatically, pulled him into her arms, pouring her love and comfort into her embrace, in hope that he would be able to feel it. 

They stayed downstairs together, eating ice cream and watching something stupid on TV, until Will nodded off. Alana, yawning, turned off the TV and then the lights. Lucy, on her bed next to the sofa, was sound asleep. 

Alana rose up, out of the sofa, to go to bed, pushing Will’s feet aside from where they had been on her lap. He shifted a bit in his sleep, but didn’t wake. But instead of going straight to bed, Alana stared at him for a while in the darkness — the calm rise and fall of his breathing, the look of peace on his face. 

Tomorrow, she knew, Will would make the drive north to Baltimore, to the cell where Hannibal spent his days. She didn’t know how seeing Hannibal again would affect him, given how badly his last visit had gone. But even if Will was okay, this ordeal wasn’t near to being over — because there would, then, be the long, frustrating days hunting a killer: chasing down leads, rushing down trails that went nowhere, and, of course, always waiting for the next set of bodies to drop. 

She had managed to steal some time with Will over the past week — time that they both needed, to remind each other why they loved each other. That time, she would always treasure. But, fundamentally, it was time that was secreted away from the larger, more urgent purpose that both fate and Jack Crawford had used to bring them back together, the same purpose that drove Will to reunite with Hannibal. 

_What do you want?_ she asked herself. _And, more importantly, what are you willing to do to get it?_

Alana knew what she wanted — she wanted Will home and as well as he could ever be, living as the good, thoughtful, considerate father she knew he was capable of being. She wanted her family to be complete: to have the two people she loved most in the world together, under one roof, with her, where they both belonged. 

But what was she willing to do to get that? 

In order to get that, she knew — this had to end. Moon Man needed to be caught. The path that Jack had sent her and Will on had to reach its destination. 

Her mind made up, then, as silently as possible, she padded back up the stairs, pointedly avoiding the creaking spots. She chanced one more glance at Will, still sleeping on the sofa. She paused by Stephen’s room, where there was silence. 

In her bedroom, her phone was on her charger and she lifted it, unlocking it and, in the browser, pulling up Tattle Crime. Unconsciously, absorbed in her task, she sat down on her bed. She thought back to something Will had said, long ago, the night he had been released from Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. In her mind’s eye, she remembered him sitting in the passenger seat of her old car, looking haggard and exhausted after a year behind bars. _Alana, is this one of your schemes?_

It had been a long time since she had needed a scheme. 

Alana, only just realizing she was sitting on her own bed, scrolled through the news, looking for the tip line. There it was, at the bottom of the page — _Have a tip? Email us at tips@tattlecrime.com_. She clicked on the link and her email opened up automatically.

She began to type. _Freddie —_

_While I have not yet forgiven you for publishing those photos of Will in the hospital, I am willing to reach out to you. Will seems determined to ignore you. I don’t._

_I have a scoop for you. But in exchange for this information, I only ask one thing in return. I think that you probably know that Will and I have a child together, and if you do, thank you for your discretion. And if you didn’t, I think it is likely you would have found out soon, as the case we are all involved in is moving deeper into the halls of the BAU, lacquered with gossip._

_In exchange for my scoop, I ask that you never mention that Will and I have a child. Our son is innocent and doesn’t deserve to suffer for what his parents have done. I don’t know if I can trust you, but I am asking you this, as one woman to another._

_So, here is what I am willing to barter in exchange: Will Graham will be visiting Hannibal Lecter tomorrow at Baltimore State Hospital to discuss the Tooth Fairy case. I don’t know the exact time; you may have to stay all day. Do with this what you will, but don’t let Will see you and don’t tell him I sent you. Maybe that’s two things…or three._

_I don’t know if I’ll ever have more for you. I hope this is enough._

_Sincerely,  
Alana Bloom_

She looked over the email a few times, then hit send. She knew a few things — that, if Will ever found out what she just did, he would be furious, and that if he ever asked her, she would have to tell him the truth. She was a terrible liar. 

_Better hope he doesn’t find out, then,_ she thought, then turned out the light and lay down in her bed, struggling to sleep. 

In the morning, after a restless night of dreams where she fought with Will, she saw Freddie’s response in her inbox: 

_Dear Dr. Bloom —_

_Thank you for the tip. I promise I will keep my end of the deal; you can trust me on that._

_I’m sorry for what happened with Will. I was angry. That’s all I can say._

_And I don’t think — I have never thought — Will is a psychopath. I only include that to stay in good graces with Dr. Chilton. I think you’re clever enough to know why._

_Freddie_

Alana sighed in relief, then got up to check on Stephen. She found his crib empty but found him at the kitchen counter with Will, who had served him toast and eggs and juice in his little sippy cup. 

Later that afternoon, as Alana’s Academy trainees filed out of the classroom, a burst of noise caught her attention — then, excited chatter. She looked up, expecting Jack or even Will himself, but the trainees were all pulling out their phones. “Holy shit,” one of the men said. “Will Graham went to see _him_.” 

“Shut up,” a woman hissed. “Dr. Bloom can hear you.” 

Alana pointedly pretended not to hear, but she knew — Freddie had updated Tattle Crime. 

Once the classroom was empty, Alana had a chance to pull up the site on her own computer. She sat down at her desk, not knowing how she would feel but wanting to be ready anyway. Next to her, the sailboat paperweight she had given Will gleamed in the overhead light, just a little. 

She ignored the headline and focused on the large picture on the homepage — it was Will, looking pale and shaken, his laptop bag tucked under his arm. His glasses, on the bridge of his nose, were slightly askew. He looked like he had gone to war. In the background behind him were the words _Criminally Insane_ , from the sign at the entrance to Baltimore State Hospital. 

Alana stared at the photo and felt dirty.


	5. Chapter Five

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,  
if I settle on the far side of the sea,  
even there your hand will guide me,  
your right hand will hold me fast.

— Psalm 139, NIV

Alana found Will on the back patio when she came home that evening. Lucy and a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet were next to him. She recognized the bottle —Will had left it on the bar cart, unopened, when he had moved to Florida. Not wishing to startle him, Alana lightly scraped her shoe on the concrete porch. Will turned his head in her direction and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I heard the sliding door,” he said. 

She walked closer, coming around to the chair on his other side, where she had often chosen to sit. He had gone to his favored chair automatically. “The bottle was still here,” Will continued.

“Yeah. I haven’t had much of a chance to open it. Pregnant, then breastfeeding.” She smiled at him, being careful to keep her gaze steady, but gentle. The last thing he needed was her microscope after being at the mercy of Hannibal’s. 

“Where’s Stephen?” Will asked. 

“He’s in his playpen, awaiting chicken nuggets.” Alana sat down next to him. Will was watching her; he looked weary, years of pain behind his eyes. He turned his head away from her and nodded forward. “The orchids look nice,” he said. 

“They’re new. I killed the first round.” To her surprise, Will chuckled. Encouraged by this, Alana sighed. “Nicole convinced me to try them, but they’re a pain in the ass to grow.” 

“The magnolia is doing well, too,” he said. “It’s gotten a lot taller.” Alana noted the condensation in his whiskey glass. He had been sitting outside for a while. She said nothing, choosing, instead, to let him speak, to give him time. 

“Jack wants to come over tonight,” he said, finally. “He wanted to talk to me about today. He couldn’t come earlier because he was giving a deposition.” Will brought the whiskey glass to his mouth and, in one gulp, finished what was left. “I tried to go to the store and get something for all of us to eat, but I couldn’t concentrate. I’m sorry, Alana.” 

She smiled at him again, softly. “I’ll order us some food,” she said. “Go inside and have some chicken nuggets with your son. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. And if you don’t, that’s okay.” 

He nodded, his mouth twisting again in the new habit he’d developed — in grief. He stared for a bit at his empty glass, then lifted his gaze to the quiet backyard, where the last of the evening light was fading. Alana stayed silent next to him, giving him time and space. 

“Jack can have chicken nuggets,” he finally said, turning his head towards her again. 

She laughed. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” she said, “but I am hosting him in my lovely, solidly middle-class home. My mother would be beside herself if I didn’t at least try to serve him something civilized.” She rose to go back inside, but, instead, Will put out an arm, beckoning her to come over to him. Alana stepped over to him, grasping his hand as he pulled her close. She let him lay his head on her stomach. 

He was silent for a time, and Alana let the seconds tick away while she ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m drinking too much,” he said, finally, his head still buried in her stomach. “I’ll stop for a while and my nightmares will stop, and then they start up again and I drink and they get worse.” He sighed. “I’m turning into my father.” 

Alana stayed silent, letting him speak, letting him take comfort. 

“You were right,” he whispered. “Nothing he said was worth this.” He lifted his head from her stomach and she put both of her hands on his face. His eyes were wet. Alana leaned down and kissed him tenderly, first on his forehead, then on his lips. 

Jack arrived at nearly eight, which was too late to see Stephen. “Please don’t wake him,” he told Alana, who offered to bring the baby downstairs to say hello. “Will’s with him,” she said. “Bath time, then story time.”

“How is Will?” Jack asked, as Alana took his suit jacket. 

Alana sighed. “He drank about half of a hundred-dollar bottle of Scotch. But I made sure he ate something and he’s largely sobered up.” 

Jack made a face. “That sounds…” 

“Like a very Will thing to do? I agree,” Alana said. “I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky he didn’t go missing again.” 

Jack loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, showing his burly forearms. Just then, he glanced past Alana’s shoulder and seemed to notice Lucy for the first time. “Is she yours?” he asked her. 

“She was the Leeds’s,” Alana said, leading him over to where the dog sat on her bed next to the sofa. “It appears no one in the family wanted her, or was willing to cover her vet bills. Will picked her up on his way out of Atlanta and brought her here.”

“Again, a very Will thing to do,” Jack said, extending a hand toward the dog, who sniffed it and then looked at him with doleful eyes. “She’s the one that our unsub tried to kill?” 

Alana nodded. “Will’s going to take her back to the pack when all of this is over. I don’t know if she trusts humans any more.” 

Jack squatted and pet her very gently around the head and ears. Alana heard Will’s footsteps on the stairs and glanced up to see him coming down from Stephen’s bedroom. “Did he go down okay?” she asked. 

He nodded. “We read _Where the Wild Things Are_ for the night’s entertainment,” he said, reaching the bottom of the stairs and walking over to her. “There was a lot of applause.” 

Alana laughed. “Better that than crying.” 

Will put an arm around Alana’s waist and gave it a squeeze, then leaned on the chair in the living room. Jack rose from petting Lucy and they all stared at one another for a beat, the tone changing between them. Alana noted it and changed the subject. “I ordered us some food. I hope you’re okay with linguini with clam sauce. It’s one of Will’s favorites,” she said. 

“That sounds delicious.” 

“And I apologize for my clothes. It turns out that stewed peaches are really hard to get out of silk.” Alana gestured to herself; she was clad in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. 

Jack smiled. “Please, Alana…Will. I appreciate you having me over here.” 

“Do you want wine?” she asked him. “Or we can finish the Glenlivet that Will so graciously opened.” She nodded to herself. “Let’s do the Scotch. And Will, you’ve drank enough of it already, so none for you.” 

After serving Jack a generous glass of Scotch, as well as a smaller glass for herself, Alana plated the food in the kitchen while Jack and Will sat together at the dining room table. She could overhear a murmur of their conversation — Jack was asking Will about the dog, then about how things had gone in Atlanta. 

“Did Alana tell you we may have gotten a description of him?” she heard Will ask. 

“Yes, she mentioned it,” Jack answered. “What did you think about it?” 

“If it’s him, he’s wearing a disguise,” Will said. “The goatee is fake.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“He’s disfigured,” Alana interjected, carrying in the plates for Will and Jack. “Personally, my guess is a cleft lip.” 

Jack nodded as she placed the plate in front of him. “This is too much food,” he said, when he saw the plate. 

“Oh, please,” Alana said, smiling. “Will’s getting the same. And,” she continued, turning to Will, “you had better eat it all. You’re still a little drunk. I can see it in your eyes.” 

“Where’s yours?” Will asked her, his question a bit loaded. He wanted to make sure she was eating enough. 

“It’s in the kitchen. I didn’t want to drop it.” She stood next to him for a moment, surveying the table and making sure everything was set. Jack and Will looked up at her expectantly. “You’re waiting for me,” she said. “Please don’t. I’ll be along in a moment.”

And, a minute later, she took her seat at the table between Jack and Will, her own plate, smaller, in front of her. Jack nodded approvingly at the pasta, and Will dug in hungrily. Alana thought it was so nice to have both Jack and Will at her table that she was loath to spoil it by talking about Hannibal. 

Finally, after a time, Jack broached the subject. “Freddie Lounds got more pictures of you,” Jack said, nodding towards Will. “Someone must have tipped her off.” 

Alana worked very hard to keep her facial expression even. 

“I haven’t seen them,” Will said. “And anyone might have tipped her off. My going there to visit Lecter would be a source of great excitement.” 

Jack paused. “How was he?” he finally asked. 

“He was different,” Will said, his voice and expression both steady. “He was petty. Ugly. Captivity has changed him.” 

“It sounds like it’s made him worse,” Alana said. 

Will nodded. “He and Chilton are no longer speaking, apparently.” 

“Why are they no longer speaking?” Jack asked. 

“Some sort of hay about an article Lecter wrote,” Will answered. 

Alana nodded. “Yes, I heard about it. Hannibal published a refutation to Dr. Chilton’s book in the _Journal of Abnormal Psychology_ a few months back.” 

“Did you read it?” Jack asked her. 

“No,” she said, scoffing. “I probably should, to be honest, but I can’t say that I care what those two have to say about each other.” 

“Are you surprised they’re not speaking to each other?” Will asked, looking at her. 

“They’re both raging narcissists,” Alana said. “I’m surprised their relationship lasted this long.” Will chuckled in response. 

Jack still seemed interested in the subject. “Why would Dr. Lecter’s article cause them to stop speaking to each other?” he asked Alana. 

“Professional politics,” she answered. “Dr. Chilton publicly expressed his opinion about Hannibal, and then Hannibal refuted it, likely in a way that was quite…politely humiliating.” Alana paused for a moment, then continued. “And I would bet that Hannibal has been offered significant amounts of money for book deals. Certainly more than what Dr. Chilton was offered.” 

“Can he do that?” Jack asked. “Sell a book?”

“The Son of Sam laws are supposed to prevent it,” Will responded, “but a load of courts are striking them down on First Amendment grounds. Even murderers have a right to speak. Lecter may not be able to earn profits from a book sale, but there are lots of other things he could earn.” 

Alana nodded, picking up on Will’s hint. “Attention,” she said. “Interviews. Professional clout. And humiliation for Dr. Chilton, which would delight him just as much as money would, I think.” 

Jack nodded, rubbing his lip in the way he did when he was thinking, calculating. “You said he was different, Will. How was he different?” 

To Alana’s surprise, Will actually laughed. “He said I smelled bad. ‘Tell Alana to buy you a new aftershave,’” Will said, in a decent imitation of Hannibal’s accent. “I told him you bought me the one I was wearing.” He paused again, his expression changing as he ruminated on the day’s visit. “He said I stank of fear.” 

Alana, smiling, leaned in and smelled his shirt. “I still smell aftershave,” she said. “And some sweat, but it’s hot out.” 

Will returned her smile, just a little; he knew she was trying to cheer him up, and she knew he was grateful for it. He continued on. “He didn’t say as much, but it appears he thought we were doing well by ourselves, regarding the case. He perked up at your notes about the Red Dragon, though, Alana.” 

“Did he?” she asked. 

Will nodded. “He mentioned William Blake, the poet and painter. He has a series of four watercolors, all featuring a character called the Great Red Dragon, from Revelations.” He picked up his phone and opened a tab. _“A great sign appeared in heaven,”_ he read. _“A woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head. She was pregnant and cried out in pain as she was about to give birth. Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born.”_

Alana’s mind, naturally, went to Stephen, who was sleeping upstairs. 

Will continued. _“Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought back. But he was not strong enough, and they lost their place in heaven. The great dragon was hurled down — that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him. When the dragon saw that he had been hurled to the earth, he pursued the woman who had given birth to the male child. The woman was given the two wings of a great eagle, so that she might fly to the place prepared for her in the wilderness, where she would be taken care of for a time, out of the serpent’s reach. Then from his mouth the serpent spewed water like a river, to overtake the woman and sweep her away with the torrent. But the earth helped the woman by opening its mouth and swallowing the river that the dragon had spewed out of his mouth. Then the dragon was enraged at the woman and went off to wage war against the rest of her offspring — those who keep God’s commands and hold fast their testimony about Jesus.”_

Jack continued to rub his lip as he listened to Will read. “Is this what he sees himself as?” he asked. “The Dragon?” 

“In a way,” Will answered. “He doesn’t grasp the subtlety or message of the passage. But he likes to think of himself as the Dragon — dominating the woman, devouring her.” 

“It’s the opposite of how he is seen in his everyday life,” Alana said, thinking aloud. “Our unsub is a person with intense anxiety, deep frustration, and little or no self-esteem. He’s never had fulfilling relationships with women, probably never had a girlfriend. He dreams of being a strong man — powerful, respected, feared.” 

“Does he hate women?” Jack asked.

“No,” Will said. “He loves them. He’s like Garrett Jacob Hobbs that way. He loves them and fears them, because they are mysterious to him. But he fears their rejection.” 

“That’s why he rapes them,” Alana said, “and mutilates them. A woman did something to him once, I’m sure of it — she laughed at him, or humiliated him in some way. He’s angry, but he still wants to be loved. So he loves them as they die.” 

They all paused, awkwardly. After a time, Will continued. “The interesting thing about those Red Dragon watercolors is that all of the originals are here in the United States. Two of them are in D.C., another is in Philadelphia, and the other is in the Brooklyn Museum.” 

“Close by, then,” Alana said. 

“We can cross-check visitors to those pieces. They’re all in special collections so anyone wanting to view them would need academic credentials and be recorded.” 

“So if the same name pops up at all those places?”

“It’s either someone doing serious research about Blake,” Will said, “or our unsub.” 

“I’ll get Beverly on it first thing in the morning,” Jack said. 

“I’ll work on it, too,” Alana said, grateful to have a task to do. “And we can pull security camera footage. With any luck, we may be able to finally get a real look at this guy.” 

“He’s not an academic,” Will said. “So his credentials will be fake. You’ll need to check the credentials of anyone signing out the watercolors and make sure they’re all real people.” 

Alana nodded. “I hope we’re lucky,” she said. “I hope.” 

Jack got up to leave shortly after he had finished his dinner. “Sit,” Alana ordered. “There’s dessert.” Will collected their plates while she plated three helpings of tiramisu. She handed Jack and Will large helpings, keeping a significantly smaller portion for herself. 

The three of them had dessert in companionable conversation, talking about Stephen and his responses to Will. “Did I tell you he said his first word yesterday?” Alana said to Jack. 

He chuckled approvingly. “Let me guess. _Mama._ ” 

“I wish. It was _Doggy_.” 

Jack laughed heartily, then checked himself. “Shit, that was loud; I’m sorry. But that’s so perfect.” 

“It was incredible. Clear as day. Will’s with him for like an hour and he starts talking.” 

“We’re still working on _boat_ ,” Will said. “And _Mama_ , of course.” 

“He’ll get it soon,” Alana said, looking at him. “I think he wants to impress you.” 

After they had finished dessert, Will was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. Alana grasped him around his waist and put her head on his shoulder. “I’ll see Jack out,” she said. “Go take a shower and get ready for bed.” 

Will nodded; he looked grateful for the break, as his desire after a difficult day was always to retreat into himself for a bit. “I’ll take care of Lucy first,” he said. 

“She likes applesauce,” Alana replied, smiling. “I gave her some last night.” 

Alana walked with Jack out the front door and out to his Suburban, which was parked in the driveway. “I’m going to request you be in the BAU full-time until this is over,” he said, as she walked beside him. 

“What if it will take a while?”

“It won’t,” he said, reaching the car and facing her. “This guy’s not the Chesapeake Ripper. He’ll get messy. You and Will are hot on his tail and you’ll strike.”

“I’m glad to hear you have such faith in us,” she said. “I hope it’s not misguided.” 

“It’s not,” Jack said, then paused. “What relationship do _you_ have with Dr. Lecter?” 

Alana shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to him since the night he tried to kill Will and I — and I tried to kill _him_. That time I screamed at him in his hospital room was the last time we spoke.” She laughed a little, ironically. “Or _I_ spoke, rather.” She sighed. “I have a standing restraining order against both him and Dr. Chilton. We are all not supposed to be speaking to each other.” 

Jack nodded. “Do you think he knows more than what he told Will?” 

“Possibly,” she replied. “But Will is, in a way, keener than he is, and that’s a big part of why Hannibal feels the way he does about him.” 

“Which is?” 

“Hannibal both fears and loves him. And he feels that way because Will can understand him. He’s maybe the only one who can.” 

“How do you think he feels about you?” Jack asked. 

“He doesn’t fear me. Not in the same way he fears Will, anyway.” 

“Maybe that’s a mistake on his part,” Jack said pointedly. 

Alana shook her head, still maintaining eye contact with him. “I can’t understand Hannibal. I can analyze him, read him. But there’s dark places in him that I don’t want to go into. Not anymore.” She rolled up the sleeves on her sweatshirt absently. “Will, on the other hand, is drawn to that darkness,” she continued. “He can’t help it — it’s his empathy. Everything bleeds together for him; there’s no hard lines. He’ll try to understand something until it destroys him. He doesn’t have the same sense of self-preservation you do, or I do.” 

Jack nodded silently.

“I’ll always do for Will what he can’t do for himself,” Alana said. “I’ll force him to stop. I’ll draw the lines for him. And things are different now. He has a son to think about, a son who needs his father, who _deserves_ him. Hannibal can’t compete with that, and he knows it.” 

“And Will has you,” Jack said. 

“And he has me.” 

“And Dr. Lecter knows that, too.” Jack opened the door to his car. “I want you to talk to him, too. See if he’s hiding anything. We have to know if he is.” He got into the driver’s seat of the car. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important, Alana,” he said. “Same with Will.” 

“I’ll do my best with him,” Alana said, “but things may be too far gone between us. I don’t know if I can get any more from him than Will could.” 

Jack shook his head. “It’s not what you’ll get from him. It’s what he’ll give away.” 

Alana nodded. “Will said he was ugly.” 

“Keep on with that. Let him be ugly. Ugly is sloppy.” As he finished speaking, Jack started up the car. “I’ll get you moved to the BAU in the morning.” 

Alana nodded. “Goodnight, Jack,” she said. She walked back to the porch and watched him as he turned the big Suburban onto the road. 

After coming inside and seeing Will in the living room with Lucy, she locked the front door and armed the security system. “How is she?” Alana asked, walking over to him and sitting down next to him. 

“She’s a traumatized thing that needs care,” Will said, stroking Lucy’s head. The dog was licking up a plastic container of applesauce. 

“Not unlike yourself,” Alana said pointedly. 

He reached over and grasped her hand. “I’ve missed this place,” he said softly, looking around the room and then lowering his gaze to hers. “Everything is clean and well-lit. There are no sharp edges.” 

Alana’s heart wanted to speak — _Come home, Will_ , it wanted to say — but she changed the subject instead, doing as he often did when he was uncomfortable. “You never asked me to redecorate,” she said. 

He shook his head, then turned back to Lucy, as if it was too hard for him to look at Alana. “I grew up poor. That causes certain behaviors to be ingrained in you. It never occurred to me to ask you to change your home for me — that you would even want to.” He continued. “I got my old house at a deep discount. The previous owners pretty much just left it and it ended up as a short sale. Most of the furniture was there when I moved in and I sort of built my life around it. It never occurred to me to change it. I think it would have been too much work for me, to go pick out furniture…develop a _style_.” 

“You had a style,” she said. “Thrift-store chic.” 

“Is that what they call it these days?” he replied, chuckling a little. He was looking at her again. 

“Sure. There was a whole issue of _Architectural Digest_ devoted to it.” She gasped. “You know Hannibal’s house in Baltimore was in there once? They didn’t find his basement, though.” 

“Fortunate, for them,” Will said wryly. His gaze slid out a little as he remembered something, then came back in. “I remember the first time you did my laundry. I went to do it and the hamper was empty. Then I found that you had cleaned everything and folded everything. It was like magic.” He smiled at the memory. “And I thought, this is what it must be like to be cared for by someone…for someone to love you enough to do your laundry for you, without you asking, without you even realizing that they had done it. Not wanting anything in return but to take care of you.” 

Alana returned his smile. “I felt that way when you fixed things,” she said. “I think you had been here a matter of days. Remember that lock on the sliding door? It had fallen off not long after I’d moved in and I always forgot to fix it. But I came home and there it was, fixed. As good as new. And I thought, this is what Will must be doing, to try to pay me back for letting him stay here.” 

“It was,” he said. “And it was because I loved you, too. I was broken enough, I thought. You didn’t need any more broken things around you.” 

Alana, touched, rubbed his shoulder. Then she sighed. “Jack wants me to talk to Hannibal.” 

“You don’t have to obey him, you know,” Will replied. He did not seem surprised, nor offended. “He’s our colleague now, not our boss.” 

“Do you think it’s worth it? For me to see him?” 

“For the case? Not in the slightest. For your own peace of mind? Maybe.” 

“I’m scared to see him,” she said softly, confessing her true feelings. 

“You are the strongest person I know,” Will said evenly, the sound of his voice reassuring her. “You won’t let him in. He won’t be able to charm you any more.”

“So he’ll challenge me instead.” 

He shrugged. “Maybe that’s a good thing.” 

“Jack thinks he’ll let something slip.” 

“He might,” Will said. “Or he might be spurned into action. But I honestly don’t think he’s hiding anything. He doesn’t know any more than we do.” 

“What else did he say to you, Will?” she asked softly, gently. “Anything you didn’t tell Jack?” 

Will sighed. “He asked me if I remembered our last visit together. I told him no. Then he asked me if he could call me if he had any other ideas. I told him no for that, too.” He swallowed hard. “And that’s what seemed to set him off. He accused me of using him, told me I was being rude.” 

Alana nodded. “And that means it’s open season on you.” 

“It’s always been open season on me,” Will said. “I don’t think he knows if he wants me dead or alive.” He turned his body toward her. “I still think he’s as dangerous now as he ever was. Someone like him can never be tamed. He’s a tiger, pacing his cage day after day, but ready to pounce at the first sign of a mistake.” 

Two days later, Alana scaled the steps of Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Will had wanted to come with her, but she had refused him; she had asked him to stay at home with Stephen and continue to work on the case with Beverly. The three of them had been busy cross-checking records and security footage from the museums holding the Blake watercolors to make sure the known pictures of the scholars, from various university websites and LinkedIn accounts, matched the people who were recorded on the museum cameras. As a trio, they had decided to go back in the records quite a few years, but even with a simple deduction — looking up the records of men rather than women — it was still a long slog of work, with even more to come. It was a long-shot lead, but they had to do _something_. 

Alana caught herself partway through the “Wi” of Will’s name as she signed in under “Patient to be Visited” — she had written his name so many times that it was an unconscious response. She scratched out what she had written and started again, substituting in “Hannibal Lecter” for Will’s name. “Is Dr. Chilton in?” she asked the security guard. 

“No, ma’am. It’s Saturday,” the guard replied. Alana didn’t recognize him from the year that Will had spent here. “He’s not usually in on Saturdays. Did you need to speak to him?”

“No,” Alana said, carefully controlling her voice. “I’ll wait here, then.” She took her favored chair and pulled out her phone, going back over her notes. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure if talking to Hannibal would make any difference, and the fact that Will was skeptical, too, made her feel even less sure. “Will I just be wasting my time with this?” she had asked Will as she stood in her closet trying to decide what to wear. Will had been carrying Stephen in his arms. 

“Yes,” Will had answered directly, which surprised her. She had opened her mouth to reply when he continued. “But cases like this are all about wasting time.” He walked a little closer to her. “Forget what Jack wants, or expects. What do _you_ want out of this, Alana?” 

She had sighed. “To close the book,” she said. “And to win, if I can.” 

He had smiled, a little wryly. “Then win,” he had said. 

The rattle of keys broke Alana from her reverie. She glanced up and saw another young male in the white garb of an orderly. He was wearing a heavy set of keys on a large ring and was shaking them obnoxiously. _Hannibal must_ love _you_ , she thought. 

“Dr. Bloom?” he asked. “Here to see Dr. Lecter?” His voice skipped lightly over the _t_ sounds in Hannibal’s name. 

“Yes,” she said, grabbing her purse and getting up from her chair. 

“Come with me then,” he said, then turned away from her and started walking swiftly down the hallway where Dr. Chilton’s office was. Alana followed, passing through the route she knew well — Chilton’s office, the private meeting rooms where she had met with Will so many times, the staff bathrooms and break rooms. The high-security ward would be around a corner, then down a stairway to the left…

But, at the end of the stairway, instead of turning left, the orderly entered another doorway that led to another staircase, deeper inside the hospital. Alana opened her mouth to speak, but he glanced back at her and continued on. “He’s not in the high-security ward,” he said. 

“Why not?” Alana said. She was deeply uncomfortable. 

“You’ll see,” the orderly said, then began speaking as if he was a tour guide as they descended the steps. “Stay behind the white line. Pass only paper, no paperclips or staples.” 

They were on a landing, with more steps between them. “He has his own pencils, so there’s no need to give him any.” 

More steps. “I don’t need to tell you what he’s capable of. Don’t give him a chance to show you.”

There was a heavy metal door. The orderly keyed in a code, then laid his thumb on a fingerprint pad. The keypad glowed green and then the door unlocked, loudly. The orderly looked back at her and Alana knew, with a surge of annoyance, that he was checking to see if she was scared.

 _Fuck no, I’m not_ , she thought. _And fuck you for thinking so._

Through the door they went, and they were now down deep in the basement of the hospital — in the belly of the whale. There was a short concrete hallway, and Alana heard music — opera, she realized, as the voices echoed off the floor and walls. 

She definitely wasn’t scared. Actually, and more accurately, she was _pissed_. 

They reached another door. Another code, another thumbprint, and an alarm rang as the orderly opened this door. How many had there been? Five? It was an absurd amount, and yet, not enough. 

“Have a nice visit,” the orderly said, holding the metal door open for her. “There’s a bell by this door for when you’re done.” 

“Thank you,” Alana said politely. The volume of the opera music fell, then ceased. She went through the door, having to get uncomfortably close to the orderly. 

The room she was in was huge. The metal door slammed and locked behind her and, despite herself, she jumped at the noise. The room had no bars, but a thick layer of what looked like bulletproof plexiglass. There were a few spaces in it — two metal sally ports, a few spaces with tiny holes for sound to move through. There were larger holes higher up, well out of her reach and high enough that Hannibal might have to strain if he wanted to use them. 

And Hannibal himself was there, sitting in the center of the room at a wood drawing desk. He was dressed in a clean white shirt and white slacks. Alana spied the contents of the room: a huge amount of books, posters, drawings, a neatly-made bed with clean sheets and blankets, a Bose soundbar, a small refrigerator, a ring light with a magnifier, a _flatscreen monitor_ ….

He was in a gilded cage, all right — here he was, in fucking _opulence_. Will must have been livid when he saw this…and she felt the anger rising in her own chest. She had to choke it down quickly, before Hannibal would notice — 

Hannibal raised his head. “Good afternoon, Alana.” He hadn’t looked at her yet. He lifted his head slightly higher, sniffing the air. “You’re wearing a different perfume.” He closed his eyes, sniffing. “Rose and oud — artificial, of course.”

“Of course,” Alana heard herself say, her voice strong despite her anger. She walked closer to the plexiglass barrier. 

“You didn’t put it on this morning,” Hannibal continued. 

“Last night,” Alana answered. 

He continued sniffing. “And some of Will’s aftershave, that cheap one he uses. You were close to him recently.” 

“Yes,” Alana replied. “I kissed him before I left.” 

“All this time, you’ve never convinced him to use another one?”

“Will likes what he likes,” she said. “He’s obstinate that way.” Like lighting, her anger morphed into grief — not for Hannibal, but for Will, who had gone through hell in this place, while Hannibal enjoyed a life of privilege, just as he always had. 

Hannibal finally turned his head to look at her. “You look well,” he said. “Please take a seat. You’ll find a chair against the wall behind you. You’ll have to move it yourself, I’m afraid.” 

Alana turned and saw a high-backed chair behind her. “You’ll also find a desk, if you need it,” she heard Hannibal say. She lifted the chair — it was quite heavy — and moved it closer to the barrier. The chair was so heavy that she couldn’t lift it completely and it made a scraping sound on the concrete floor. 

She sat down on the chair and laid her handbag down on the floor next to her. Hannibal was watching her. His eyes, dark under his close-cropped blonde hair, were oddly flat. His expression was pleasant, on the surface, but there was no light in his eyes. 

Was this new? How could she have not noticed it before? 

Alana thought of Will’s eyes and how open they were, how clearly they showed his happiness, or his grief. The difference was astounding to her. Hannibal had the eyes of a psychopath — maybe he’d always had them, and Alana had never realized it. 

Hannibal smiled pleasantly, but there was no joy in his eyes. “There were some very interesting rumors flying around about you, Alana.” His eyes traveled to her hands, which were folded on her lap. “No ring, I see.” 

She held up her left hand for him to inspect. “Still Dr. Bloom,” she said. “What were these rumors?” 

“I heard,” he said, appearing to savor every word, “that you were teaching at Quantico and you were pregnant. Nothing sure on who the father was, though.” He continued to gaze at her, his head very still. “Are you going to tell me?”

Despite herself, Alana laughed. “Are you concerned _you_ are the father?” she asked. 

“I am definitely not,” Hannibal replied. 

“Then I see no reason why you need to know.” 

Hannibal shifted in his chair slightly. “Will was very cagey as well, when I asked him.” He leaned an arm on the drawing desk. “In fact, he said very similar to you. Did you rehearse it?”

Alana smiled calmly. “There’s nothing to rehearse, Hannibal,” she said sincerely. “You don’t have to rehearse the truth.” 

He nodded. “Anyway, it is nice to see you again,” he said. “And congratulations on your pregnancy, and the birth of your child.” 

“Thank you,” she responded. 

“You were very stiff when you entered,” he said. “Now you are starting to relax a bit. You’re remembering why we were once friends. Would you like some wine? I can call for some.” 

“No, thank you, Hannibal,” Alana said. 

“Will has reverted back to addressing me as Dr. Lecter,” he said. “I am glad to know you still call me Hannibal.” 

Alana felt a surge of grief again, acutely. “You meant a lot to me once,” she told him. 

“But no longer.” 

“No longer,” Alana said. “You hurt me. And I don’t think that hurt can ever be repaired.” 

“Will has hurt you, too, I imagine.” 

“Yes,” she said honestly. “And he’s tried to make up for the hurt he’s caused me. That’s what people do when they love each other.” Alana felt the sting of tears in her eyes — she had thought she would be angry, but she hadn’t expected that seeing Hannibal would hurt as much as it did. And the fact that he didn’t appear to care made it all the more worse. 

She cleared her throat. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here.” 

“Why are you here?” Hannibal asked. 

“I came here at the request of Jack Crawford,” she said, still being honest. “He wanted to know if there was anything you were hiding about the case we are working on. But Will said he didn’t think there was, and I believe him.” 

“He is right, as always.” 

“We’re working on your lead about the Blake watercolors,” she said. “So thank you for that. It’s appreciated.” 

“You’re welcome,” Hannibal said. He shifted again, leaning forward in his chair. He was only a few feet away from her. “So, then, my dear Alana, what do you want to say to me?” 

Alana breathed in the silent bowels of Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. There was no sunlight down here; Alana felt as if she was underwater, as if time had stood still. 

And maybe it had. 

She remembered back to a snowy night in a tiny apartment in Baltimore, just before Christmas. Will was bleeding out on the floor and she stood over Hannibal, her gun in her hands and her finger calm and sure on the trigger. How she longed to have put an end to it that night, when she’d had the chance…

It would have been the end of her worry, the end of her fear, and a quiet sense of justice in a world that so rarely had it. 

But she couldn’t kill him, not now, and time had moved on — Will was scarred but alive, and their son was here, and he was wonderful beyond imagining. And Alana remembered back to the girl she had once been, smoking on a balcony, staring at the city lights and dreaming of Hannibal. 

Alana’s heart broke for her, for all the mistakes she knew she would make. 

She swallowed hard, gathered her thoughts. “I know that you love Will infinitely more than you ever loved me, which was probably very little, if at all.” 

Hannibal was silent. 

“I know that Will is your true love; I only matter to you as much as I matter to him. And I know that, like every lover, you are desperate to be with him again. I stand in the way of that.” 

“You have my number, so to speak, my dear Alana.” She was impressed that he did not try to deny it. 

“I have influence,” she continued. “Like most women, I lead from the shadows.” 

“What about your killer?” Hannibal asked. “Are you hunting the Tooth Fairy from the shadows? Because it seems as if Freddie Lounds thinks differently.”

She ignored that. “I know you have nothing else to give us, and Will knows that, too. But not everyone knows that.” She nodded her head towards Hannibal’s cell. “I don’t know what you did to make Chilton kiss your ass so much, but he did. And I also know that you continue to have a lot of power here, despite where you are. Things could be a lot worse for you, Hannibal. They could become uncivilized.” 

He was listening to her. 

“I won’t have you toying with us. You can’t use any secrets as bargaining chips to get what you want, because you don’t have any.”

“And what do I want?” Hannibal asked. 

“To see Will. It’s the only thing you truly want. Those books, your little luxuries…you would throw them all away if it would get Will to notice you. But it’s not going to work.” 

“You seem quite sure I have nothing else to offer.”

“Maybe you do,” Alana replied. “But, as I told Will, nothing you have is worth the price we will all pay for it. You’re not going to get him to come here to see you by offering information as bait.” 

He smiled a little. “You appear to have me figured out very well.” He lowered his voice. “But, I ask again, Alana — _why are you here?_ ” 

“I think I came here to give you advice,” she said, “but I’ve only just realized it now.”

“Very well. What is your advice, Doctor?” 

“You have a fantasy, Hannibal,” she said. “I’m not saying that’s bad, because fantasies are normal. I imagine you have some particularly vivid ones. But I’m here to bring you the truth. And the truth is often ugly and difficult to hear.” 

He was silent again. 

Alana continued. “Will would never have become what you wanted him to become, not really. He’s not a psychopath. If it came down to it, he couldn’t handle your particular brand of mayhem. And that’s nothing on him — that’s what makes him a good person.” 

“And I am not a good person, in your opinion?” 

“No,” Alana said, truthfully. “You’re not. You’re a very dangerous person, a very destructive one.” 

“What about you?” Hannibal asked. “Are you a bad person?”

“I don’t know. I’m discovering new elements of myself all the time, to be honest.” She paused, remembering Stephen in Will’s arms. “I’ve discovered I like a quiet life,” she said. “I shop at Target. I garden. I listen to podcasts. I bake. I sing along to the radio. I vacuum dog hair off of my furniture. My life is utterly banal and utterly wonderful.”

She thought of Will, sitting on the floor of their home with an injured dog. _I’ve missed this place_ , he had said. _Everything is clean and well-lit. There are no sharp edges._  
  
“And that’s the kind of life Will likes, too,” she said. “He protects himself with it.” 

“Is he so fragile that he needs to protect himself?”

“We’re all fragile,” she responded. “We’re all broken, in our own little ways. Even me.” 

“You’ve gained a lot of wisdom, Alana.” 

“I suppose I have,” she said. 

Hannibal shifted in his chair again. “You’ve told me some harsh truths about myself,” he said. “But you have yet to give me advice. What should I do about my fantasy, Dr. Bloom?” He sounded as if he was mocking her, just a little. 

Alana spoke gently. “You’ll never be able to get what you truly want,” she said. “Time can’t reverse itself, Hannibal. What is broken cannot be mended to be the same it was before.” 

She thought of Will, the scar on his stomach. _More than half a smile._

“Part of you will always love him,” she said. “That’s how love works. Even if he hurts you, you will still love him.” 

“What about you, Alana?” Hannibal asked, shifting back to using her first name. “Do you still love me?”

“No,” she said. “But that’s because I realized I never loved you at all. I didn’t know you.” She got up from her chair, wanting to leave, wanting to get out from under his gaze. “I don’t know you. The Hannibal Lecter in front of me — he’s a stranger.” 

Hannibal leaned back in his chair, his hand moving to his pencils, straightening them. “Before you go,” he said, “I wanted to talk about your child with Will.” He smiled wryly, humorlessly. “I know your child is Will’s child; there’s no need to try to hide that from me any longer.”

“What about my child, Hannibal?” she asked. 

“Just because a child exists does not mean his parents get to live.” His eyes had gone black. He was trying to get a rise out of her. She wouldn’t take the bait. 

“The world is cruel,” he continued, “and anything can happen. None of us are meant to be happy or have everything we ever wanted. That would offend God.” 

Alana nodded. She was amazed to realize how calm she felt. “Very well,” she said. 

“I will try to kill you,” he said, “for the rest of my life.”

“And I will try to stop you for the rest of mine.” 

Alana, then, picked up her purse and walked toward the door, hitting the button next to it to signal she was done with Hannibal Lecter.


End file.
